


Unwanted Guests

by WolfenM



Series: Trying to Be Nicer [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking and Entering, Burglary, Character Study, Child Abuse, Comedy of Errors, Comfort/Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Delusions, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Families of Choice, Family, Family Loss, Fire, First Love, First Time, Friendship, Gang Violence, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Hate Crimes, Home Invasion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jealousy, Journeying While Injured, Life-Threatening Encounter, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, Long-Term Relationship(s), Loss, Lost Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Man's Best Friend - Freeform, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Prostitution, Rescue, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Serial Killers, Serious Injuries, Sexual Abuse, Shellshock, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Threats of Violence, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Wounded, animal companion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 73,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfenM/pseuds/WolfenM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instances of visitors who make life a living hell for Thomas. (Some non-con/rape and violence, but not for titillation, and not graphically depicted.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dog's Best Under-Butler

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:** through the Season 3 Christmas Special.
> 
> NOTE:You don't need to read "Driven Around the Bend" to read this one, but you should probably have read the others in this series. All you need to know from "Driven" is that Clarette ambushed Jimmy and gave him a talking-to about his attitude towards homosexuality in general and Thomas in particular, and that he wasn't very receptive at the time but the seeds were planted, and this made it easier for him to be friendly with Thomas after the mugging.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, John Bates, Anna Bates (nee Smith), Alfred Nugent, Isis the dog, Beryl Patmore, Tom Branson, Edith Crawley, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Mary Crawley, Violet Crawley / the dowager countess, Isobel Crawley, Sybbie Branson, Daisy Mason (nee Robinson), and Richard Clarkson © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Isis meet a killer in the woods, and barely escape with their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genres/Themes for this Chapter:** Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Character Study, Whumpage, Serial Killer, Pre-Slash  
>  **Prominent Characters in this Chapter:** Thomas, Jimmy, Lord Grantham, Anna Bates, Carson, Mrs Hughes, Mrs Patmore, John Bates, Richard Clarkson, and an OC  
>  **Relationships Featured in this Chapter:** Friends: Thomas / Jimmy, Thomas / Alfred, Thomas / Bradley, Thomas / Mrs Hughes, Thomas / the staff. Antagonistic: Thomas / OMC  
>  EDIT 12/21/2013: Thanks go to Darklady for pointing out a flaw regarding a mention of Mrs Crawley -- I've made a tweak to that passage.

_November 30th, 1921_

"Bit of grisly business in the paper this morning, Mr. Carson," Thomas murmured quietly to the butler as the man sat down at the table. "I wouldn't like to share the _details_ with the ladies, but I _do_ think we should warn everyone not to go outside unescorted for the time being," he added, handing over the paper.

"Oh?" Carson wondered, accepting it. The man's eyes grew wide as he took in the front page story. "Indeed, Mr Barrow, I quite concur," the butler replied after several long moments, looking a bit ill.

"Concur with what, Mr Carson?" Jimmy asked as he and Alfred settled themselves across the table from Thomas, both nodding to the under-butler in greeting.

Thomas looked about, making sure there were no women present, and leaned over, speaking lowly. "It seems there's a serial killer on the loose, offing mostly nobility. He's murdered nine people so far, at four estates, in just two days! The killings have all happened outside, during the day, and it seems he killed one servant as well, a valet. He last struck at Havendale Manor ...."

Jimmy and Alfred exchanged worried glances. "That's not too far from here ...." Alfred breathed.

"Yes, well, let us not discuss it further, lest the story reach more delicate ears -- especially not now," Carson said quietly, and the other men nodded. It had been only a month and a half or so since the violent and senseless death of Matthew Crawley, and household hearts were still tender; doubtless the family would have counted at least one of the murder victims as friends. "I will, of course, broach the subject in full with His Lordship," Carson continued, "but I'll come up with something _else_ to tell the ladies in order to convince them to stay indoors." Not that they had to worry about Lady Mary, who barely left her rooms, much less the house ....

"Perhaps we should invite the Bateses to stay in the house for the duration?" Thomas suggested.

"Yes, I think that would be for the best," Carson agreed, looking at little surprised.

Thomas fought down a rueful smirk. It had been a bit over a year since Thomas had become under-butler, with him striving very hard to be useful, effectual, and kinder ever since his promotion. Even if he hadn't always been successful in those efforts, he thought he'd done pretty well, all things considered. With that in mind, he would have thought, working as closely as he had with Carson for the past year, the man wouldn't _still_ be surprised or suspicious when Thomas acted conscientiously towards someone else! Didn't Carson trust the opinion of the Bateses? Would they have Thomas over for dinner and cards so often if he was still the sly, thieving bastard he'd once been? 

Even Alfred had become much more friendly and accepting towards Thomas -- perhaps because Bates had scared O'Brien enough that she opted to put their little war to entirely to rest, leaving Alfred free to make his own conclusions. Thomas still didn't trust entirely the woman anymore, but she was cordial if not overtly friendly, and she hadn't pulled anything against him since his near-dismissal.

On the other hand, Thomas supposed he couldn't blame anyone for not believing in any of the efforts he made to be a better person -- especially as he _did_ slip now and then, despite his best efforts to bite his tongue to prevent a catty remark from dripping from it. Old habits died hard, and for many years, the mind and heart of Thomas had been a great storm of anger, an ever-intensifying cyclone formed of a need to return hurt for hurt. Just because Grantham had given him a second chance didn't mean everyone would suddenly like him.

Still, he'd apparently been so meek at first, after his indiscretion and near-dismissal, that Carson (and, to a lesser extent, Anna, Bates, and Hughes) had actually found it necessary, on occasion, to lecture him about how a butler (as he would likely one day be) needed a firm hand and voice to manage the staff, adding that butlers were not there to be anyone's friend. Happily, with much time and effort (and trial and error), Thomas found a happy medium between being firm and being approachable. Thusly, most of his fellow servants had come around to being friendly with him, finally -- yet also stopped taking advantage of his precarious position, and gave him the respect and obedience an under-butler was due.

Bates had been right about being nicer: most people were nicer to him in turn these days. Knowing that so many in the house had actually already known what he was and tolerated it all these years, he didn't feel so much like he was walking on eggshells anymore, like every step was a landmine that could blow his life to pieces. While he still resolved to be careful, he no longer lived in _fear_. The raging storm had slowly dissipated, a little at a time, to just a gentle, if sometimes gloomy, rain. Carson might be oblivious to the change, but others had noticed, even commented.

And then a couple of months ago, to the quiet joy of the under-butler, the longstanding, one-sided cold war that Jimmy had long waged against Thomas had finally ended. Jimmy's smiles no longer hid behind dark clouds whenever the man caught Thomas looking at him. Thomas had once said he liked sunshine, but the sun had nothing on the warmth of Jimmy. With the lad as his friend now, that cloud of melancholy rain within the under-butler had nearly evaporated, leaving a contented daystar in its wake.

Well, save for one dark little corner -- and until the law prohibiting his ... _interests_ was abolished, that could never wholly be cleared. But while Thomas couldn't have everything he wanted in life, he understood now that he was lucky to have what he _did_ have -- even questioned daily whether he _deserved_ it. He'd resolved to do his best -- and make sure no one _else_ had cause to wonder if he was worthy.

~ * * * ~  
A short while later, when everyone was finally gathered at the table, Carson cleared his throat and began the morning meeting. He finished with, "And lastly, we have been informed that a dangerous predatpr is on the loose nearby. Until further notice, no one is to leave the house unescorted, and you should avoid going outside as much as possible." He turned to Thomas then. "Mr Barrow, if you could inform the Bateses of the situation after you've finished breakfast, I would be much obliged -- it will give them time to pack up a few items if they should choose to stay here for the duration."

"Of course, Mr Carson," Thomas replied amiably.

"Shall I go with him?" Jimmy asked the butler. "You said none of us should go outside alone."

Thomas felt his heart twinge at Jimmy's concern. As much as their new friendship made life more bearable in some ways, it made it even harder in others. Thomas would never fall out of one-sided-love with the boy at this rate!

"I need you to polish the silver that you didn't finish with yesterday, James," Carson growled before turning to Thomas. "With His Lordship and Mr Branson indisposed for the morning, Isis will need someone to walk her, if you don't mind, Mr Barrow. _She_ should suffice for company, I think."

Thomas felt his mouth quirk a moment in amusement, as he shot Jimmy a teasing glance. As much as he enjoyed the notion that Jimmy worried for and wanted to spend time with him, he suddenly suspected that the hope of shirking off work for a while was also part of the reason for Jimmy's offer -- probably the _main_ one, truth be told.

Before turning back to Carson, Thomas screwed his features back into their usual pleasant-but-aloof gaze (admittedly a variation on his old cold, arrogant sneer. He'd practiced this kinder, gentler version with the Bateses until they'd said he had it right)."Certainly, Mr Carson."

"Come to the office for elevenses, and we can go over the plans for the luncheon on Thursday, the dinner on Friday, and the brunch on Sunday."

Early on after being promoted to under-butler, Thomas has proven himself a quick study, very capable of planning events; having earned Carson's respect and praise in that area made the butler much more pleasant to be around. While Thomas wasn't eager to handle big events all by his lonesome, he found himself taking pride in the work as Carson's second-in-command. "Very good, Mr. Carson," Thomas replied with a nod.

~ * * * ~  
After breakfast, Thomas changed into something more suitable for the chilly, muddy weather -- calf-high boots, brown trousers, brown waistcoat, grey overcoat, a grey cap, and black gloves (both full), along with a blue scarf Anna had made for him -- and hurried to the library to fetch Isis. Thankfully, the door was open, meaning that the Crawley men weren't embroiled in some private meeting, and so Thomas wasn't worried about bothering them.

"Begging your pardon, Your Lordship, but I've come to give Isis her walk," Thomas said from the doorway, hat in his hands.

"Ah! Thank you, Barrow! I'd do it myself, but I'm afraid Branson and I are buried today," Grantham sighed, staring at the stacks of papers on his desk in something resembling despair. Of course, with the passing of Mr. Crawley, they didn't even need paperwork in order to be despairing.

As if Isis understood the conversation, she abandoned her spot by the fire and trotted over to Thomas, tail wagging happily and tongue lolling. When she reached him, she jumped about excitedly, licking his face as he, smiling, bent over to scratch her behind the ears, equally happy to see her. "Hullo, old girl," he greeted her playfully.

Once upon a time, the dog had been nothing more than a means to an end to Thomas, but since then he had come to truly like Isis. She had easily forgiven him after he'd locked her in a cold shed for a day, and was the only creature on Earth who seemed well and truly _joyous_ to see him. He couldn't imagine any human being so forgiving -- nor did he think he actually deserved her forgiveness. Between the dog's own innate, vast ability to love, and her owner's kindness to him, Thomas would walk the dog to the ends of the Earth and back if he were asked. As it was, it wasn't at all uncommon for him to be asked to at least walk her around the grounds; he did it without complaint, regardless of the weather. He'd discovered that he didn't even need to hold the lead, that Isis would stay with him just as she did with her beloved master (although he wasn't willing to tempt fate enough to leave it off her completely, as His Lordship sometimes did).

"Maybe just a bit of exercise near a door, though? Instead of a real walk?" Grantham suggested. "No sense taking any chances by wandering further afield."

Carson had doubtless informed Grantham of the serial killer during breakfast (which, at least for His Lordship and Branson, had been served in the library that morning), while Thomas had been changing. "I'm sure Isis would be content with a game of fetch in the field, milord," Thomas agreed, bidding the man farewell.

Since they needed to stop at the Bateses' cottage, which was at the back of the estate, Thomas led her down the servant's stairs, rather than taking her out the front door.

"Oh, do you _have_ to bring 'er through _'ere?_ " Mrs Patmore complained as Isis unexpectedly ducked into the kitchen as they passed.

Well, not entirely unexpectedly.

"Blame the dog, not me -- she's got a mind of her own," he retorted.

Watching Mrs Patmore attempt to shoo the animal, he surreptitiously nicked a couple pieces of diced cheese off the counter before helping her herd the dog back into the hall. Once outside, he popped one cube into his mouth and slipped one to Isis, grinning when she licked his fingers after.

~ * * * ~  
Since Bates had a paper of his own, the valet and his wife already knew about the murders, but they were grateful for Carson's offer, and agreed to accept it. In fact, Thomas had the impression that the pair had already discussed the possibility -- and that Bates had initially been reluctant about it, but practicality (and, doubtless, Anna) dictated that Bates not put himself in a situation where he might need to run from danger (seeing as he couldn't actually do so). And here Thomas had assumed he was going to spend a good hunk of the morning trying to talk Bates into it! (While the man was practical, Bates was, despite his quiet nature, also as stubborn and proud as Thomas ever was, the under-butler reckoned.)

Anna offered Thomas a second cup of tea to warm him for his walk, but while tempted, he ultimately refused it. Though he had no pressing tasks and Carson would expect him to be away for a bit, the weather looked to be turning truly nasty soon, and Thomas wanted Isis to get as much exercise in as she could before the rain began (especially after Anna had given the pampered pooch more than a little leftover breakfast). Besides, while Thomas had, to his great surprise, come to enjoy the company of the Bateses, he wasn't entirely sure of his own welcome in their home, and didn't want to wear out any they had for him. (At least in the servants' hall, they could make a reasonable excuse to go home if they tired of him!)

Heading back outside, Thomas paused to find a hefty stick in a woodpile, then led Isis to the field near the servants' entrance and threw the small branch. She brought it back dutifully, tail wagging in canine satisfaction, dropping her burden at his feet for a repeat performance. He obliged her a few dozen times -- until something else caught her attention.

She was as far away from him as he could throw the stick when she paused, looking towards the woods and stiffening.

His heart lurched. She was about to chase something, he knew it, and he was too far away to catch hold of her lead. Following her gaze but not spotting what had actually distracted her, he began to run where he was sure she was about to go, hoping to head her off, snapping, "No, Isis! Stay! STAY!" All was to no avail; she raced away much faster than he could follow, flushing a rabbit that proved even more fleet than the dog herself.

Panicked, the fear that he might lose the dog warring with irritation that she should put him in this predicament in the first place, Thomas ran after Isis as best as he could, following her into the woods, calling her to him with increasing desperation and hoarseness. Isis began to slow and, to his momentary relief, stop -- but just as he drew near, she was off again. After several instances of this, he began to feel like she was leading him somewhere, pausing only to make sure that he didn't lose sight of her. His smoker's lungs screamed and he coughed, air becoming a precious commodity to him, but the dog didn't seem the slightest bit winded.

And then a gunshot echoed through the wood, and Isis was yelping and stumbling head-over-paws a dozen yards ahead of him.

"ISIS!" Thomas screamed. 

Another shot rang out, and with it, fire lanced across the side of the under-butler's right thigh.

The world twisted crazily -- and not just because he was falling to the ground. One moment he was in the woods, lying face-down on a muddy trail with an injured Isis beside him, and the next he was in a muddy trench, surrounded by the dead and dying, with an armed soldier approaching him, pistol aimed his way.

Thomas instinctively rolled, just before the man fired, and the ground exploded beside him. Isis began barking at their assailant, reminding Thomas of her existence, and the world suddenly became woods again instead of trench. The man, now in plainclothes, aimed his lamentably still-existing pistol drunkenly at the Labrador, firing but missing. More panicked than ever, Thomas grabbed a small, nearby rock and threw it in the opposite direction; it hit a tree, distracting the man. Thomas didn't waste a moment, but scrambled to his feet, roaring in agony as he put weight on his leg, and launched himself at the stranger. Stumbling back, the man turned the pistol towards Thomas. Heat seared the under-butler's left shoulder, but momentum carried him onward into his assailant and to the ground. Thomas then grabbed the man's wrist and squeezed hard, feeling bones shift in his grasp; the enemy cried out and released his weapon.

Grabbing the gun and scrambling away until he was against a tree, Thomas hurriedly aimed the weapon his enemy's way, panting in terror and pain and exhaustion. The man was lying on his side, cradling his arm and glaring at the under-butler. Thomas used the tree to help him push himself to his feet, the gun shaking in his adrenaline-spiked grip but still aimed well enough to hit the man if he had to. (He hoped.) Isis did her part by barking shrilly, but the sound frazzled Thomas probably as much as it did their assailant, if not more.

"Isis! Hush!" he ordered.

Whining a little, she sat down, a paw raised. Thomas wanted to check her injury, but didn't dare while the stranger posed a threat to them both. Worse, as Thomas caught his breath (or tried to, as his cough robbed him of it repeatedly), his injuries reintroduced themselves -- loudly. It occurred to him that it wouldn't take much for the stranger to overpower him ....

"Why did you shoot us?" Thomas gasped out, hoping it was all just a misunderstanding but having other suspicions.

"Ain't you read the paper, boy?"

 _Damn._ "You're 'im, then? The one what's been shootin' lords?" Thomas asked, letting his posh accent drop in favour of his natural dialect, trying to make it clear that he was just servant.

"Aye, that I am." The man slowly sat up as he spoke, a slight slur to his speech confirming for Thomas that the fellow was a bit drunk -- and giving the under-butler a bit of hope that he and Isis could survive this confrontation. "Ireland's not the only place for revolutions, boy," the psychopath continued. "So long as people like them live in comfort, never liftin' a finger, while the rest of us scrape to get by, watchin' our loved ones die because we can't afford to feed 'em enough or care for 'em ... so long as there are _classes_ , there will be war between them!"

"But _I'm_ not a lord!" Thomas protested. "Why shoot at _me?_ "

"I seen plenty o' _your_ kind, too, lad! You help 'em, look down on the rest of us like you're better than us, when you _should_ be tellin' 'em to sod off! You turn us away from the door when we ask for help! You're the _hands_ of the nobility -- how well can they function without you? Besides, they'll come lookin' for you or the dog, and when they do ...." The man started to get to his feet, an evil look in his eye.

"Stay down!" Thomas warned.

The man didn't listen, but lurched towards Thomas. Startled, Thomas pulled the trigger. The man looked down in surprise at the growing red stain on his shirt, before dropping to his knees, then toppling to the ground, eyes open but sightless.

Thomas had never killed a man before, even in the war. He'd seen death -- of varieties that were much worse than this. He fully believed he had a right to defend himself, and Isis, and didn't really feel remorse in killing a murderer. All the same, though, there was something chilling in seeing a life just ... _stop_ \-- especially when knowing that _you_ were the one who'd stopped it.

Thomas felt his own knees give way, and he slid down against the tree. A moment later, he was giving up his breakfast to the mossy ground beside the trail. When he was through, he realised he was shivering. _Shellshock, or just the cold?_ , he wondered detachedly as he leaned back against the tree, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg and ignoring how the world flickered from woods to trench and back again.

Isis came up to him, limping, and he saw that her left shoulder was coated in blood. She whined as he gently probed her fur. A bullet had grazed her, cutting as deep as bone for an inch or two at the start of the wound and blazing a trail across another four inches or so, shearing her fur and some skin off. It barely bled anymore, the heat of the bullet probably having nominally cauterized it, with coagulant doing the rest of the work. Grisly though the wound seemed, provided it didn't get infected before they could get it stitched up, she would be fine. He let out a small laugh of relief.

Looking himself over, his own shoulder was in better shape; it burned and it was bruised, but the bullet had barely touched muscle, and the wound hardly bled. It was nothing compared to the agony in his leg. Even there, the bullet had ripped across the muscle on the outer side of his leg -- there was no bullet left to dig out, and thankfully it hadn't nicked any major arteries or veins along the way, but again there had been some cauterization from the heat of the projectile, so the cut wasn't bleeding _too_ badly. It was just a very deep (and bruised) gouge, not so unlike the wound Isis had. He had seen much, much worse during his time as a medic. Still, infection was always a worry, even in slight wounds, and this one was not exactly small. Would that he really _was_ in the trenches, and had some rubbing alcohol and bandages with which to clean and cover the wound!

_Alcohol ...._

He suddenly remembered how the killer has wobbled about and slurred his words -- being _that_ drunk and this far out in the woods, the man surely had a flask on him! Thomas tried not to think about the state of the fellow as he searched through the man's pockets. He cursed as he came across an empty flask. He shoved at the corpse in his angry disappointment -- and heard something slosh, liquid against metal. Rolling the body over, he checked a now-freed pocket and found a second flask, this one still mostly full. He grinned at Isis in victory, and let himself believe she was grinning back.

He summoned her close, wincing in sympathy as she limped and faintly whined, and got her to sit in the circle of his good leg, holding her with it. Uncapping the flask, he took firm hold of her collar and gently poured some of the whiskey in it over her wound. She yelped and struggled; ignoring his own pain, he held her tight until she calmed again. He then pulled his scarf out from under his coat and wrapped it around her a couple of times, both in front of and behind her shoulders, tying it into place.

He turned his attention to his own shoulder, slipping his coat off that side a bit and stifling a scream as he dripped some of the alcohol over the graze. He failed to keep quiet as he poured more over the wound in his leg. The world went white, then black; when he came to, he wondered if they'd heard him all the way back at Downton. _I hope so -- maybe they'll send someone to fetch us ...._ Isis, still whining, stood over him and licked his face. He reached up unthinkingly with his hurt arm to give her a reassuring pat, wincing and hissing but finding he could move it well enough.

Using a tree, he struggled to his feet. He screamed a little quieter this time (not that it mattered, unless the killer had an accomplice, and wasn't _that_ a cheery thought), and though he swooned, legs buckling some and stomach churning, he managed to stay conscious. As he gripped the tree for dear life, the pain faded to a ... well, less scream-worthy level, and the nausea passed.

Turning back to face Isis, his eyes fell on the stranger's belt.

It occurred to him then that having a tourniquet would help.

Resettling himself gingerly on the ground, Thomas steeled himself against the memory of shooting the stranger or even thinking of the corpse as a having once been a living, breathing person, and removed the belt with all the assurance of a valet doing his duty. In his own pocket, Thomas found a pocket-knife O'Brien had given him for his birthday a few years back. As he cut the belt down and made a new notch so it would fit properly around his leg, he wondered if she would be pleased or annoyed that he still had the gift -- and that it was possibly saving his life now ....

Thomas then cut away a strip from the man's shirt, careful to avoid the blood soaked into it, and wrapped it around his leg-wound. 

Looking about in the brush on either side of the trail, he soon spotted a long branch, one sturdy enough for him to use as a walking stick. "Shall we?" he asked Isis, taking up her lead and beginning the trek back to Downton, pausing to pick up his now-filthy cap and shove it in his pocket. Even putting all the weight on the branch instead of the leg, he whimpered now and then involuntarily, and Isis wasn't much better off. It had taken them about ten or fifteen minutes to get where they were, but at the rate they were going now, Thomas estimated at least four times that to get home -- maybe more, if they had to rest a lot. He resigned himself to a long, miserable journey.

They'd only been travelling about fifteen minutes, Thomas reckoned, when the first peal of thunder cracked. Isis immediately sat down and began to shake violently, whining in earnest and panting heavily. He tugged at the leash, but she would not be moved.

"Isis, sweetheart, if you want to really hide from the nasty boom-booms, we need to get back to the _house_ ," he pleaded, feeling rather despondent at this point. Isis wasn't a young pup anymore, not by a longshot, and he wasn't sure how well she could handle what had happened already, much less the added stresses of a storm and cold air on top of that. He tugged again, but she remained firmly rooted. "Come _on_ , you stupid dog!" he snapped as his last nerve frayed, yanking hard, pulling her an inch or so along.

Thunder came again just then, louder this time; for a moment, he was in the trenches again, bombs falling far too close for comfort (as if his comfort was something the enemy cared about). When he snapped out of it, he found himself seated on the ground, cowering with the dog. "Well, what a pair we make, eh? I'm sorry, Isis, I shouldn't have yelled at you or pulled you like that," he apologized softly, rubbing her neck under the collar. "I _know_ what it's like to be terrified, 'ey? Like you can't control anything, not even your own body." He felt water trailing down his cheek, and honestly didn't know if it was tears or rain, the latter of which was now hesitantly falling. Another crack sounded, and they both shivered, Isis appearing to him as fellow frightened soldier for a long moment. When he came back to himself, he buried his face in the dog's fur and hugged her close, trying to calm himself as much as Isis. 

Not that either of them were ready, but after a few more moments, he decided that they needed to get going, as the largely leafless trees weren't exactly good shelter. But how? He couldn't carry her, that was for certain.

"Wish I had a stretcher," he told her. "Even by myself, I carried a few of our boys that way -- you just have to let the back end trail in the mud. Course, I need to lean on that stick to get anywhere with this bum leg, and I couldn't carry a stretcher with just one arm ...." He played idly the leather lead as he thought aloud, twisting it around his fingers.

Then Thomas had a flash of a memory of dragging a sled uphill through snow, giving rides to Clarette or Declan in turn. He'd only needed one hand to pull the contraption, thanks to the way a loop of leather had been tied to both sides of the sled, allowing him to pull it by the middle, keeping it balanced.

He stared at the leather lead in his hands, an idea forming. Taking off his overcoat and laying it aside, he then took off his waistcoat and put it on the dog, hoping to restrict her movements for the journey home. He also removed her lead. Limping about for a few minutes, he found two more long and sturdy branches. He wrapped his overcoat around them and buttoned it so that the buttons faced the ground. Then, using the lead, he tied a shorter stick as a crossbar to the handles of his impromptu litter, above the coat, doing it in such a way that the lead formed a loop, like the one he'd used to draw his sled years ago. Tearing off the sleeves of his shirt, he tied another crossbar-stick to the base of the litter, to stabilise it.

Finished, more or less, Thomas lay Isis on the coat, then tied the arms of the coat over her -- it wasn't exactly secure, but better than nothing. Shivering and miserable between the worsening storm and her injury, she didn't seem intent on jumping off the thing, at least. Taking up the leather loop in his left hand and the staff in his right, he took a few awkward, tenuous steps. Being partially held aloft, it wasn't nearly as stable as a sled, tipping a bit now and then, but it ultimately worked. Between the awkwardness of the stretcher, the pain in his leg, the falling rain, and the slippery ground, the walk home was going to take forever, but they _would_ get there -- even if they were sopping wet and half-frozen when they did.

~ * * * ~  
"Where is Mr Barrow?" Mr Carson asked as he came into the servant's hall. "He should have been in my office ten minutes ago!"

Looking up from the silver he was polishing, Jimmy was glad to note that the butler didn't seem particularly angry so much as confused. Jimmy didn't blame him; it wasn't like Thomas to be late.

Mr Bates and Anna looked up from what they were each sewing and exchanged similarly perplexed glances.

"He's not back yet?" Anna asked, brow furrowed. "He left our cottage at _least_ an hour ago!"

Unsurprisingly, O'Brien seemed to be listening in as she sewed. What _did_ surprise Jimmy was that she stopped working at Anna's words, and looked a bit worried.

"Did you tell him to do anything else after he talked to us and took Isis for a walk?" Mr Bates asked Mr Carson. "Maybe he's upstairs ...."

"No, just that he should meet me for elevenses. But I suppose he could indeed be upstairs -- maybe he's checking the clocks ...." Mr Carson wondered aloud.

"Let's go take a look around -- he could indeed be working with the clocks, or maybe he sat down for a moment and fell asleep," Mr Bates suggested with a wan smile as he rose to his feet, Anna following suit.

Even though it would likely mean Thomas getting reprimanded, Jimmy suspected that they were all hoping that such was indeed the case, because it would mean the man was safe and sound and not outside with a lunatic.

Jimmy thought his eyes would pop out of his head when O'Brien stood. "I'll help," she offered, seeming genuine. Thomas had said that they had something of a truce, but Jimmy hadn't really believed it until this moment!

The Bateses seemed equally surprised, but Mr Bates nodded in approval, while Anna said, "Thank you -- the more eyes, the better."

 _Maybe I_ should _have gone with Thomas when the man went for his walk,_ Jimmy thought to himself. "May I go check around outside?" he asked aloud. If Thomas really was out there, and in danger of meeting the serial killer, then they had no time to waste!

Carson pursed his lips, then nodded. "Perhaps you'd better. Go to the front door and get Alfred to help you."

"Can I go too?" Bradley asked, looking anxious.

If Jimmy hadn't already known that the kid was fond of the under-butler for having helped out his sister, Jimmy would have suspected the kid of just shirking his chores -- especially when the other hall boys in the room then chimed in that they wanted to go as well.

Carson was apparently on the same wavelength as Jimmy.

"Since Bradley asked first -- and actually seems to _care_ about Mr Barrow's well-being -- _he_ may go," Carson replied. "Samuel and Geoffrey will serve in place of James and Alfred at luncheon, and Paul will finish cleaning the silver for James after he's finished whatever work Samuel and Geoffrey have left when they have to go upstairs."

Under different circumstances, Jimmy would be amused by the disgruntled hall boys -- but then again, under different circumstances, they wouldn't have _reason_ to be so.

Jimmy wished they had no reason.

~ * * * ~  
Thomas regarded the open, blood-soaked, body-filled field before him with dread. The sounds of distant guns and grenades weren't helping, but at least they didn't sound _close_. Maybe the freezing rain was holding the enemy at bay. Thomas wished he could stay put for a while, but the wounded soldier in his stretcher needed help -- and Thomas himself didn't seem in too great of shape. If he could just make it to that canopy tent in the middle of the field, he could at least get out of the rain for a moment and catch his breath ....

Thomas took a glance at his charge, making sure the soldier was still secure. Satisfied, he braced himself and stepped out of the modest shelter of the leafless trees, into the full force of the storm.

~ * * * ~  
Jimmy was torn between hoping Thomas wasn't out in the wretched weather and hoping that he _was_ , so Jimmy himself wasn't suffering for nothing. _If I find out that Thomas has been inside by a cozy fire all this time, I'll_ kill _him!_

The rain had thoroughly soaked Jimmy, Alfred, and Bradley in less than a minute. None of them had even bothered with an umbrella, knowing how one would be turned inside-out for sure when the wind as at its fiercest. Jimmy could barely see, and when he called out for Thomas, his voice was drowned out by the storm, even when accompanied by the voices of Alfred and Bradley.

As they drew near the back of the house, the rain let up a little -- enough that Jimmy could see a figure in white lying on a bench under a massive tree, with something strange on the ground beside him. Doubtless the figure was Thomas. For a second, Jimmy was furious, but it quickly occurred to him that Thomas wouldn't just laze about there in the cold and wet. Something had to be _wrong_.

Jimmy began to run, but quickly found, to his frustration, that he couldn't go very fast without slipping and sliding. He still outpaced the longer-legged Alfred, much less the shorter Bradley, but even so, it took an agonisingly long time to reach the tree, with the fear that Thomas might be dead growing with every step. Jimmy knelt (almost collapsed, really) breathlessly by the bench, absently patting the whining dog on the head.

"Bradley, you look Isis over, all right?" Jimmy ordered the youth.

Jimmy's fear that Thomas was dead was temporarily assuaged by the fact that the man, sprawled face-down, was shivering hard. His shirtsleeves were ripped off, and Jimmy caught sight of a thick, red gash on the man's shoulder.

"I think he's been shot!" Alfred proclaimed; Jimmy saw him examining the bloodied bandage wrapped around the man's thigh, and the tourniquet above it.

Ignoring the turning of his own stomach, Jimmy rolled the Thomas onto his side, and lightly slapped his face a couple of times. The man's skin was like ice! "Thomas? Thomas, can you hear me? _Thomas!_ "

"Heh- _help_ m-me ...," Thomas finally moaned through blue-tinged lips, eyelids fluttering.

Jimmy let out a sigh of relief, trying not to think about how strange it was to _be_ so relieved over this man's well-being. "We've got you, Thomas. Can you stand?" Jimmy asked.

Thomas opened his eyes fully and peered at Jimmy in confusion. "J-Jimmy, wh-what are you d-doing here in F-France?" Then he shook his head. "N-never mind, no t-time to chat -- we've g-got to get this s-soldier to t-triage." Thomas struggled to sit, Jimmy and Alfred quickly helping him after sharing a worried glance.

With their help, Thomas got unsteadily to his feet -- then cried out in pain, his legs buckling. He swooned in their grip, head lolling. Jimmy and Alfred each slipped an arm around Thomas, pulling his arms around their shoulders, and began to half-carry, half-drag him towards the house, with Bradley pulling Isis in her impromptu litter behind them. 

Between fear and the effort of carrying their friend, Jimmy's heart was near-ready to burst by the time they reached the back door. Jimmy opened it, yelling out as he did, "Mr Carson! Mrs Hughes! _Anybody!_ We found Thomas!" Mrs Hughes came around the corner just in time for Jimmy to reveal, as he struggled with Alfred to bring Thomas inside and down the hall, "We think he's been shot!"

For a moment, he thought she would faint, but she quickly regained her composure. "I'll get some towels and blankets. Bring him into my sitting room and start getting those wet things off -- but _don't_ set him down on the stuffed chair! Use one of the wooden ones!" With that, she hurried away before Jimmy could, a bit outraged, ask why they _couldn't_ use the stuffed chair. Was she really more concerned with her precious furniture than a friend's well-being?

Mrs Patmore came into view next, Daisy and Ivy close behind. "Good Heavens!" the head cook cried, while Daisy stifled the start of a scream with her hand.

"Is he _dead?_ " Ivy wondered, wide-eyed.

"No, but he's close! It would help if you got some hot-water bottles made up!" Jimmy suggested pointedly. "Oh, and if one of you could call Dr Clarkson -- and the police?"

"Right!" Mrs Patmore agreed. "You lasses put the kettles on and fill as many hot-water bottles as you can find, and I'll make the calls!"

"Call the vet, too!" Bradley suggested as he dragged the litter past them.

Jimmy heard footsteps behind them, and caught sight of Paul as they reached the door to the sitting room. "Go upstairs and grab some pyjamas from Mr Barrow's room," Jimmy ordered; thankfully, the boy didn't ask any questions, just hurried off to (hopefully) do as he was told.

When they got into the room, Jimmy carefully slipped away from Thomas and dragged a wooden chair near the fireplace, while Bradley moved Isis from the litter to the hearth rug. The fire looked a bit low, so Jimmy ordered Bradley to stoke it, then turned to Thomas, who was slumped in the chair, shivering while still out like a light.

"You hold him upright and steady while I get the shirt off," he said to Alfred, bracing himself for the task. He thought for a moment that it was lucky that Thomas was unconscious, or this would be even more awkward than it already was ....

And then it occurred to him that if Thomas were conscious, he could undress _himself_.

No, that was a ridiculous thought -- he wouldn't risk his friend's health by waiting for Thomas to wake up. He pretended he was just valeting, ignoring the trembling in his hands as he began to unbutton the other man's shirt, telling himself that it was just that _he_ was chilled too, as soaked to the bone as Thomas was.

" _What in God's name is going one here??_ " barked Carson from the door.

Thomas was startled awake, and Jimmy jumped away. 

"N-nothing, Mr C-Carson!" the under-butler stuttered through his chattering teeth, not entirely cognizant yet. Jimmy almost chuckled; Thomas seemed to have thought he'd been caught doing something. The realisation that Carson thought they really _were_ doing something unseemly quickly squelched the humour, though.

"We found Thomas hurt outside -- it looks like he's been shot," Alfred explained.

Carson surged forward at that, a rare look of genuine concern on his face. "Good Lord! Where was he hit?"

"Near as we can tell," Jimmy began, "his shoulder's been grazed, and another bullet cut deep into his thigh. Thomas, you need to get out of these wet clothes," he added, tugging lightly at the shirt lightly for emphasis.

Thomas blinked in confusion, glancing down at his mostly-unbuttoned shirt, then looked up at Jimmy, and quickly ducked his head as he unbuttoned the shirt the rest of the way. Jimmy then began pulling the shirt off and down from the back. If Thomas hadn't been nearly frozen, Jimmy imagined the man would have blushed. To Jimmy's relief, Thomas pulled his undershirt off himself, with a little bit of struggle. Thomas then sat there hugging his arms tight to himself, teeth chattering.

Jimmy pointedly ignored the way his heart seemed to stutter at the sight of the man's bare chest, and instead got on to removing the tourniquet (likewise ignoring how awkward _that_ was, since it was at least something that needed to be done, unlike staring at naked chests). The little sounds of muffled pain Thomas made as Jimmy slipped the leather free were harder to ignore -- as was the wound itself, which had started bleeding a bit. Jimmy stood quickly, looking away and trying to calm his stomach.

Paul showed up then with an armful of towels topped off with the pyjamas.

Mrs Hughes came in just after him, with more towels and also some blankets. "Bradley, take a couple of these towels and get Isis as dry as you can -- but mind you, be gentle!" She turned towards Thomas then. "He's still half-dressed?" she clucked. "Stand him up so we can get those trousers off!"

"What?" Thomas asked, alarmed. "Oh, I c-can do it!" he assured them, rising -- and immediately sat back down with a cry, hands pressed hard to his leg wound as he doubled over in agony. Passing out again, he nearly fell off the chair; Jimmy caught him and held him upright.

And then no one moved for a long moment.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Mrs Hughes snapped, dropping most of her armful, save for a few towels, on another empty chair, then grabbing the pyjamas from Paul. "Alfred, Jimmy, hold him up," she ordered, walking around behind Thomas, and they hurriedly obeyed, hoisting the man up by each putting one of his arms around their shoulders.

"Mrs Hughes," Carson sputtered, "I cannot allow--"

"--me to save a man from freezing and bleeding to death, as the lot of you are clearly incapable of doing?" she cut him off. "There's a time and place for propriety, but this is not one of them! If only Mrs -- I mean _Nurse_ Crawley weren't away, I'd gladly fetch her to help, even in the midst of a dinner party!"

His jaw moved, but otherwise, Carson was speechless -- and actually looked chagrined. If not for the dire situation, Jimmy might have enjoyed that!

"As it is, we'll have to make do until Dr Clarkson gets here," Mrs Hughes went on. "Paul, hold a blanket up before him, so we don't offend anyone's delicate sensibilities while we work to save this man's life," she added with a copious dollop of sarcasm. "I trust me working from the back is a tad less scandalous than from the front?"

Carson only cleared his throat in reply.

Once the blanket was raised, Jimmy quickly turned his head away, cheeks on fire as he felt Thomas being jostled beside him while Mrs Hughes stripped Thomas bare and dried him off. Jimmy told himself he was just feeling mortified on the other man's behalf. The problem was, Jimmy was painfully aware of the fact that, if he dared to look down, he would get a peek at the other man's bared manhood. It was one of those cases where, the more you knew you shouldn't look at something (especially with other people right there, particularly when two of them were your superiors!), the more your eyes were inexplicably and mutinously drawn to it. Surely Alfred was going through the same thing right then ...?

"There, I think he's dry enough now for fresh clothes," Mrs Hughes remarked, the jostling taking on a new connotation as Jimmy reckoned she was getting fresh pants on him. A quick glance confirmed this -- and revealed that she'd put the tourniquet back on as well.

"We'll leave the pyjama bottoms off until Dr Clarkson has a look at his leg," Mrs Hughes remarked as she stepped back. "I trust the pair of you can get the shirt on? Oh, no, not back on _that_ chair!" she protested as they moved to sit the man back down on the wooden chair they'd been using. She quickly gathered a blanket and laid it over the big, stuffed seat, then hurriedly added a couple of towels for good measure.

"Have you protected your precious chair enough for us to set him down?" Jimmy groused.

" _I beg your pardon?_ " Carson roared. "How _dare_ you speak to Mrs Hughes that way?"

"Thank you, Mr Carson, but I can fight my own battles," Mrs Hughes replied with an odd smirk as she wiped her hands clean of blood with one of the wet towels. "Perhaps you'd better go up and wait for Dr Clarkson and the vet?"

Harrumphing, Carson left.

"Now, please finish settling Mr Barrow, boys." Despite the inclusion of a "please", it was clearly an order. 

When Thomas had a shirt again and was resting in the seat (with Mrs Hughes, to Jimmy's pleasant surprise, placing a pillow behind him, so he could recline some), Mrs Hughes first lay a towel over his leg, then a couple of blankets over the whole of him. Jimmy silently noted the fond and doting expression she wore as she tucked the blankets tight about Thomas.

"Jimmy, has it occurred to you that if you'd set Mr Barrow down in this seat when you first came in, he'd have to sit on a wet chair _now?_ " she asked, not angrily, as she dragged the dog's strange and now-empty stretcher away from the fire.

It was Jimmy's turn to be rendered speechless by the formidable woman. As she turned to him, he found he could only nod. The other boys in the room seemed too scared to laugh at him, at least.

"And has it further occurred to you," she continued, still pleasant as she lay a few towels down on the hearth rug, "that using towels around his leg will allow us to more easily remove and replace them if they get bloody than blankets would? Not for the sake of the chair, mind -- I mean, would you like to sit very long on a surface covered in blood, even if it's your own? Or be jostled around with a wound like that while people struggled to change out an entire blanket rather than a much smaller bit of cloth?"

"... No, I guess not," Jimmy managed finally. "I-I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes."

She faced him approvingly. "Apology accepted -- especially as I know you were only speaking out of concern for Mr Barrow. I trust you understand now that _I_ am acting out of similar concern?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Good. Now, you and Bradley help me move this poor dog onto these dry towels. Alfred and Paul, get that thing--" she pointed to the stretcher "--out in the hall and take it apart. Hopefully we can salvage poor Mr Barrow's coat!"

Throwing a worried glance at the still-unconscious Thomas, Jimmy helped Mrs Hughes while the others did as she asked. When they finished making Isis comfortable, Jimmy dragged the stuffed chair and Thomas closer to the fire, put the man's feet up on a towel on a wooden chair, then drew over another wooden chair and sat down next to his friend.

"I appreciate you wanting to look after Thomas and Isis, but I think you'd best go change into some warm things. I can keep an eye on them until you get back," Mrs Hughes suggested. "And tell Alfred and Bradley to do the same, if they haven't already!"

As if intending to prove her point, Jimmy felt a tremor run through him. "Right," he agreed, and hurried out of the room.

~ * * * ~  
Finding spare livery for himself was no problem, but Jimmy ended up helping Alfred hunt for a set that would actually reasonably fit the too-tall fellow. By the time Jimmy changed clothes and returned downstairs, with a newly-dressed Alfred and Bradley in-tow, the doctor and the vet had both arrived. Jimmy and his companions had to content themselves with waiting in the servant's hall for news of some kind -- both on the condition of the under-butler and what Carson wanted them to do next.

Carson's furrowed brow, when they finally saw him, worried Jimmy, but happily the worry turned out to be for nothing. "Isis will be up and about in no time. Mr Barrow will be laid up for a while, but Dr Clarkson believes he will recover full use of his leg. For now, he's still a bit chilled, but not dangerously so."

"He's awake, then?" Alfred asked, smiling.

Carson nodded; Jimmy noted he looked a bit pale. "The doctor is stitching him up as we speak. Mr Barrow confirmed for us that he was indeed attacked by the ... _thing_ in the woods. I also understand that, thanks to our Mr Barrow, that thing is no longer amongst the living."

Jimmy just barely managed not to roll his eyes at the butler for the cautionary wording. (Ivy knew Thomas had been shot, so doubtless the whole staff knew that Thomas hadn't been hurt by an animal). "Thank God!" he sighed in relief, instead. Regardless of what Thomas had encountered, now they wouldn't have to worry about anyone else being hurt.

"It sounds like our Mr Barrow was quite brave!" Bradley weighed in.

Jimmy nodded -- first the man had stood up to Jimmy's muggers, and now this! Jimmy wasn't confident he himself would have survived either encounter, really ....

Carson's lip curved in a rare, if slight, smile that Jimmy might even have called fond. "Mrs Hughes said as much, but Mr Barrow suggested that perhaps he'd really just been looking for another excuse to get out of his duties. I told him that I might have called him a number of not-so-nice things over the years, but 'slacker' has never been one of them!" 

Jimmy and his friends exchanged grins. Indeed, Thomas was perhaps the hardest worker Jimmy knew, and it pleased him that Carson recognised the fact!

"It's good to hear that he's still got his sense of humour after such a day," Alfred remarked.

Carson looked worried again at that. "Yes, well, nevertheless, Dr Clarkson warned me that we should be on the lookout for signs of shellshock. If you notice him being startled or frightened, or even delusional, please let me know -- quickly but _discreetly_. As for the rest of us, it's back to business as usual for dinner tonight."

Carson turned to go into his office, and Jimmy hurriedly followed him, shutting the door behind them. "Sir, I think Mr Barrow has _already_ shown signs of shellshock," he said in a rush -- and then found himself reluctant to say more. Would Thomas get in trouble for this? Be sent away? Would telling help him or hurt him?

"Well, go on," Carson prompted.

There was nothing for it now; Jimmy had to answer, and he couldn't think of a way to believably back-peddle. "When we picked him up, he seemed to think he was back in the trenches, and asked for help getting a soldier back -- meaning Isis, of course."

Carson sighed. "I see. Hopefully it was just a _momentary_ lapse brought on by trauma. Still, I will inform Dr Clarkson about it. Thank you, James."

Jimmy nodded, feeling like a heel for tattling, and turned to go.

"If it makes you feel better," Carson added before Jimmy could leave, "Dr Clarkson praised Mr Barrow for being able to jury-rig that stretcher for Isis whilst in the shape he was in. If he could do _that_ under such circumstances, then the delusions couldn't have been _too_ bad, I should think. I'm sure he will be fine, now that he's patched up and recovering, and the threat has been eliminated."

Jimmy nodded, hoping that Carson was right and not just conjecturing.

The police arrived just after the doctor finished sewing Thomas up. They questioned Thomas first, and then Jimmy and the others. By the time Jimmy was done giving his statement, he barely had a moment to check on Thomas, who was sleeping again, before it was time to start preparing for the family's evening meal.

~ * * * ~  
Later, Jimmy, Alfred, Bradley, Mrs Hughes, and even Anna and Bates ate their dinners in the sitting room, keeping the now-conscious Thomas company. Daisy and Ivy would sneak in now and then, only to be herded back to the kitchen by Mrs Patmore. Even Branson and Lord Grantham came in, asking to hear of the under-butler's harrowing ordeal, with His Lordship sitting on the floor beside his beloved dog (much to the horror of some of his employees). The nobleman seemed to have no clue as to how anxious he made half the room (not Bates, Anna, or Mrs Hughes), but soon it didn't matter, as everyone -- Thomas included -- got wrapped up in the details of the adventure. Thomas was surprisingly honest, confessing his fearfulness and not talking his bravery up at all. He even admitted to the war delusions. Part of Jimmy wondered if Thomas realised that presenting the story that way made him more sympathetic than taking a braggart's approach, as Jimmy himself would have done, might; by the end of the yarn, Jimmy had the impression His Lordship would marry off one of his daughters to the man, if only Thomas were interested!

Jimmy refused to examine the strange feeling of relief he had that such would never happen.

"Do you feel up to moving?" Lord Grantham asked Thomas. "We can bring a wheelchair around to the back door and move you to Matthew's old room ...."

Thomas looked a bit gobsmacked. "Er, to be honest, not just yet, milord. But thank you!"

Jimmy wondered how much the decision had to do with Thomas really not being able to walk, and how much it had to do with being reluctant to leave his nice, warm chair -- or reluctant to leave the comfort of friends for the lonely chill of "nobler" places. 

Lord Grantham nodded. "Well, as soon as you _do_ feel up to it, the offer is open. And you can stay there until Dr Clarkson says you're well enough to work again -- which I understand may be as much as a couple of months! Meanwhile, I'd be relieved if you wouldn't mind having Isis stay with you? I'd rather avoid moving her just yet, and it would be nice to have someone be with her more than _I_ can be ...." 

"I'd be happy to have her company, milord!" Thomas reached down and rubbed the dog's head fondly.

"Excellent! Well, I think I've kept you from your rest long enough." And after a bow of his head to the under-butler, His Lordship bid everyone goodnight, Branson following after the man after a nod of his own to the group.

"I dare say it's time for you _all_ to turn in," Mrs Hughes suggested.

"But who will look after Mr Barrow?" Jimmy found himself asking.

"Well, he is in _my_ sitting room ...." Mrs Hughes pointed out.

"Yes, but--" Jimmy tried to think of a way to say she was a bit old to sleep in a chair all night that didn't sound disrespectful. "I'm probably more used to sleeping on a cot than you are of sleeping in a chair."

Jimmy was surprised to see Thomas look alarmed.

"I'll stay!" Bradley suggested. "Someone needs to be around to take Isis out when she needs it!"

"Oh, that's a good point," Mrs Hughes agreed. "And it will take someone stronger than I to help Mr Barrow to the commode if he needs it -- unless he'd be content with a chamber pot?"

"I think I can manage a short walk," Thomas said, sounding a bit anxious.

"I thought as much. But Bradley, I think Jimmy can handle Thomas and Isis both -- I suspect you'd be up all night talking and keep Mr Barrow awake if _you_ stay."

Jimmy thought there was a bit of an evil glint in her eye. Jimmy hadn't considered about the possibility of helping Thomas to the loo, and suddenly wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

For his part, Thomas looked pale. "Mrs Hughes, I'll be fine, really. I _can_ walk if I need to."

"I'll not risk you taking a tumble in the middle of the night," she insisted. "Jimmy will stay, and that's the end of it! Jimmy, go change into your pyjamas, and I'll wait here until you get back."

~ * * * ~  
"I hope you know what you're doing," Thomas said to Elsa after everyone had left. 

"He's the one who volunteered," Elsa pointed out, shrugging.

"I don't think he thought it through ...."

"I have a feeling he doesn't think a _lot_ of things through. But he made his bed, and now he can lie in it -- literally. And if he holds any lingering doubts to your sense of honour, tonight should dispel them, yes?" She was pleased with Jimmy's sudden, recent change towards Thomas, but she was also concerned that Jimmy might get scared off again and break the under-butler's heart in the process.

Thomas ducked his head. "Yes, ma'am, no more kisses for sleeping beauties! Not that I was ever Prince Charming anyway."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she replied, smirking. Then she noted how pale he was looking. Was that a bead of sweat on his brow? "How are you feeling?"

"I think the morphine the doc gave me must be wearing off," Thomas answered with a shrug. "Feeling a bit cold again, too." He shivered, drawing the duvet higher up.

She grabbed another blanket from the pile of extra linen and draped it around his shoulders; then, as an afterthought, felt his forehead with the back of her hand. "You're a bit warm," she noted uneasily.

"I'll be fine," he insisted, but the smile he gave her with that assurance didn't seem genuine.

The smile she gave him in return, as she brushed a damp, stray strand of his jet-black hair from his brow, _was_ genuine -- if worried.

~ * * * ~  
"Oh, James, I'm glad I've caught you," Carson said as Jimmy, having just left the sitting room, made his way to the stairs to the servants' quarters. "I don't like the idea of Mr Barrow being left unattended, but also don't feel it appropriate that Mrs Hughes be looking after him all the time. Therefore, if either you, Alfred, or Bradley are amenable -- and I realise this is a lot to ask -- but I would be very grateful if one of you would stay nearby at night until he is well enough to walk at least to the ... lavatory and back on his own." His low rumble then dropped even lower as he added, "We can, ah, put a cot out in the hall for you, if you feel uncomfortable sharing a room. And you can take turns on watch each night, or each take entire nights and alternate nights -- you can work that out amongst yourselves. You'll be allowed to sleep in until elevenses, to make up for being up so late. And then if one of you could check in on him two or three times an hour, during the day ...."

Jimmy fought a grin. "Of course, Mr Carson. In fact, Mrs Hughes has already asked me to stay tonight, in case Mr Barrow should need something. I was just going to change into my pyjamas now, then come back down. But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather sleep in the room, near the fire, than in the cold hallway! And I'll talk to Alfred and Bradley in the morning about taking shifts."

"Oh! Ah, very good. Thank you." And with that, Carson went on his awkward way.

Jimmy reckoned that besides the situation in general making the man uncomfortable, Carson was a little flustered by his managerial role having been pre-empted by Mrs Hughes. It amused Jimmy enough to quell the strange indignation he felt that Carson should act like Thomas might jump someone in the middle of the night, as if the man hadn't already had the fear of God put into him over just a simple kiss (not to mention not exactly being well enough to do any jumping)!

 _Or maybe Carson's just being considerate of_ your _comfort and feelings_ , Jimmy then realised, feeling a pang of guilt over how he'd treated Thomas the past year just for the crime of being an overly-romantic and gullible fool. Funny how in such a short time that midnight kiss had gone from repulsive to ... well, maybe still a little creepy, but with an odd sort of sweetness, too. While Jimmy didn't exactly care for being cast as a princess, he could appreciate how a love-deprived Thomas might crack under the strain of loneliness and get swept up in the fantasy of kissing awake his version of Sleeping Beauty. After Jimmy's talk with Clarette, and Thomas risking his life for him, Jimmy had gotten past his anger and found himself ... well, a little _flattered_ , to be honest. And not afraid or even disgusted anymore. Boundaries had been set, and he trusted Thomas now not to cross them.

He wasn't ready to ponder whether he still actually _wanted_ those boundaries.

Changed and having procured a cot, Jimmy came back into the sitting room and found a worried-looking Mrs Hughes hovering over Thomas, dabbing at his forehead with a cloth.

"Really, Mrs Hughes, I'm sure I'll be fine. You should get some sleep," Thomas was weakly insisting.

"I can take it from here, in any case," Jimmy chimed in as he got to work setting up the cot.

Mrs Hughes nodded at Jimmy. Turning back to Thomas, she smoothed back his hair and kissed his brow like a mother might. "Sleep well, Thomas. And you, Jimmy."

"Likewise, Mrs Hughes," Jimmy replied, taking her place in the wooden chair beside Thomas. Jimmy waited a few moments after she left, watching the door she'd closed behind her, before asking his friend, "Are you _really_ fine?"

Thomas snorted, smiling. "I said I'm sure I'll _be_ fine, not that I _am_. Right now, I feel like something that fell out of the back of a cart -- and was then run over by the cart behind it."

Jimmy grinned; if Thomas was up to quipping, he couldn't be too badly off. Still, whatever Jimmy could do to help the man get well .... He picked up the cloth Mrs Hughes had been using, re-wet it, and lay it across the under-butler's forehead. "Better?"

Thomas nodded. "Thank you. I'll try not to be too much trouble."

"Pshh. You saved lives today; the least we can do is make sure you keep _yours!_ "

Thomas laughed. "I assure you, saving any lives other than my own was the last thing on my mind when I was dealing with that lunatic."

"Says the man who saved me from a mugging."

Glancing away, Thomas turned pink; and Jimmy worried for a moment that the man's fever was getting worse. Realising that Thomas was embarrassed (and feeling a little pink himself in response), Jimmy decided maybe it was time to change the subject. But to what?

Thomas apparently wasn't ready to let it go anyway. "I'm no hero, Jimmy -- 's not right to let anyone believe that. I enlisted early in the army, into the medical corps, thinking that would keep me out of the line of fire. And then, one night, after I saw a mate shot in the head, I got m'self a blighty--" he raised his hand "--so I'd be sent back home."

Jimmy supposed he should be disgusted by this confession of supposed cowardice, but he wasn't; he'd been to war too, and knew how it was.

"I came close to getting a blighty myself a few times," Jimmy confessed, though he'd only thought about it. "No healthy man wants to die, Thomas, and not most unhealthy ones either." It was still strange to say the man's Christian name again, rather than Mr Barrow, but Thomas had insisted that Jimmy do so when they were alone. "We're _supposed_ to try to survive. We didn't ask for the war, and none of us should have been put in that situation. I don't blame you in the slightest for trying to keep yourself from getting killed. And you had to have _helped_ some people, being in the medical corps! I mostly just tried my best to kill some stranger before that stranger killed me, when I wasn't ducking -- I never _saved_ anyone. And even if you _had_ been a coward, that doesn't change that you risked your life for me later -- even after I'd given you every reason not to."

"Well, I gave you every reason to hate me in the _first_ place," Thomas replied, still not meeting Jimmy's eyes. "I look back on that night, and ... I'm not ashamed of what I _am_ , you understand," he said, briefly looking Jimmy in the face, "but even if it had been someone I _knew_ was like me, instead of someone O'Brien just _suggested_ was interested in me, it's still not right to go stealing a kiss like that. I see that now, and I wish I could take it back. And the times I flirted with you, too -- that must have been uncomfortable for you. I feel kind of ... _sleazy_ , now, really ...."

His eyes were glittering; for the sake of the under-butler's pride, Jimmy told himself it was just from the fever. "I won't lie; it _was _uncomfortable, but ... I'm not entirely sorry you did all that, Thomas -- not even the kiss." He re-wetted the cloth as he spoke, and found Thomas gawking at him when he turned back. "Don't get me wrong; I agree you shouldn't have," he added hurriedly, not wanting to give the man false hope. Thomas looked away again, features blank. "But if you hadn't, I never would have had a talk with Mrs Wainright that I think I really needed," he finished, moving to lay the cloth over the man's brow again.__

Thomas suddenly looked pale, eyes wide with alarm as he grabbed Jimmy's wrist with surprising strength. A strange tingling coursed through the footman at the contact. He wasn't sure if the shiver he felt was his own or coming from the feverish man. 

"You talked with _Clarette?_ " Thomas hissed. "What did she talk _about_ , exactly?"

Jimmy smiled reassuringly and put his hand over the one Thomas held his wrist with -- not pulling the hand away, but squeezing it instead. "She just pointed out some logical fallacies in my attitude. It's given me a better perspective about love and life -- not just about you, but people of ... well, of your persuasion in general. I'm truly sorry about how hostile I was, but I'm glad it's led to me becoming more understanding and compassionate -- and more importantly, to us becoming _real_ friends. You're a man worth knowing, Thomas. Whomever you end up with will be lucky to have you." 

_**You** could be the one lucky to have him ...._

Jimmy just barely kept the shock of the thought from registering on his face as he nonchalantly patted and let go of the under-butler's hand. Jimmy had been with women and liked it. He might not think being a homosexual was evil anymore, but that still didn't mean that he _was_ one.

But the look Thomas gave him now, a mix of longing and gratitude and wonder, made Jimmy feel .... He couldn't define it. He wouldn't _let_ himself define it, wouldn't think about how no one else had ever looked at him like that, or wonder if anyone else ever _would_.

He wouldn't let himself think of how cold his wrist suddenly was as Thomas finally let go.

Desperate now to change the subject, Jimmy hurriedly asked, "Hey, is there anyone we should telegram and let know about what's happened to you?"

Thomas smiled wanly, shaking his head. "The few who'd care are already here. Well, except a cousin in Bombay, but it's not like he could get here before I'm well again, so why bother him?"

Jimmy felt a pang in his chest; he'd forgotten the story of how the under-butler's parents had thrown Thomas out. Jimmy missed his own parents fiercely, couldn't imagine never seeing them again if they were _alive_. Jimmy wondered if Thomas would want to see his parents again if he could, but the footman couldn't bring himself to ask.

"Well, you'll have visitors aplenty anyway. Carson's asked that Alfred, Bradley and I keep an eye on you -- as if we wouldn't already -- and I don't doubt Mrs Hughes and the girls in the kitchen will sneak in as often as they can. And His Lordship!"

"Well, of course -- he has to check on Isis!" Thomas smirked.

" _And_ you! You're right up there with Carson and Bates in his books now, I reckon!"

Thomas granted Jimmy a scoffing look before glancing down to pick at a loose thread in his blanket, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. The cloth tumbled from his head, making them both laugh.

Isis got up then and limped to the door, scratching it.

"Uh-oh! Looks like someone needs to use the loo," Thomas remarked. 

Grateful that it was the dog and not Thomas with the need, Jimmy excused himself to take Isis out to do her duty. She took a ridiculously long time going about it; as he shivered, Jimmy started to wonder if he wouldn't have better off if it had been Thomas who'd had to "go" after all.

This thought was reinforced when Jimmy came back inside and found Thomas collapsed in the hallway, apparently having been going back to the sitting room from the lavatory.

~ * * * ~  
After hearing the door to the outside close, Thomas decided it was a good time to take care of his own needs, sparing he and Jimmy both any embarrassment. Besides, it was getting uncomfortably toasty in his chair, the air a bit cooler once he gingerly kicked the blankets free, and even cooler outside of the small room. He trembled with weakness, and his leg screamed when he put his weight on it, but he managed all the same.

It was the return trip that gave him trouble. Halfway back, as he paused to rest his leg and catch his breath, his vision started to swim. Leaning against the wall, he slid to the floor, deciding the nice, cool surface was as good a place as any to sleep ....

~ * * * ~  
"Thomas! _Please_ wake up!" John heard as he came down the stair.

It was still pouring cats and dogs, and with Thomas out of commission, and since they were already there with a change of clothes for each of them, John and Anna had decided to stay the night after all, in case they could be of use. The rain was making John's leg ache worse than usual, and it was hard to sleep without Anna beside him (they'd both been put up in their respective servant housing, not wanting to put anyone out by asking for a room together), so he'd decided to get some tea.

"What's happened?" he asked, hobbling over as fast as he could to help Jimmy with Thomas.

"I dunno -- I took Isis out, and when I came back, I found him like this! Thomas! Wake up!" Jimmy added with a gentle shake of the under-butler's shoulders. 

Thomas only moaned, eyelids fluttering. John, kneeling carefully, rest the back of his hand against the man's sweaty forehead; as he suspected, Thomas was burning up. John helped Jimmy lift Thomas and settle him back in the chair in the sitting room, Isis getting underfoot as if she wished to help carry the man -- or was directing them as if she were Carson. "Go call Dr Clarkson," John then ordered Jimmy, a bit winded from the effort.

Jimmy nodded and hurried out the door. John covered Thomas back up with the blankets, ignoring the wash basin and cloth beside the chair. His mother always said that fevers burned out illness and infections, and that it was best to stoke them, not try to put them out.

"Dad ...?" Thomas asked weakly, eyes still closed and breathing a bit ragged. "'M sorry, Dad .... please ... don' 'ate me!"

John's heart clenched at the vulnerable plea. "It's all right, Thomas. That was a long time ago," he told Thomas soothingly, laying a hand over the younger man's. As if taking a cue from John, Isis laid her head on the under-butler's leg, whining softly. How different would Thomas have turned out, he wondered, if his father hadn't turned his back on him? _Probably not that far removed from where he is now, but he might have been at least a little kinder along the way. As much as one can be when one could be imprisoned for love, anyway._ John resolved to _never_ turn his back only any children he and Anna might have.

John then got the faintest stirrings of an idea of looking into the man's family, but it was dispelled when Jimmy popped his head into the room. "How is he?" the lad asked, eyes on Thomas.

"About the same," John replied. "He's talking in his sleep."

Jimmy pursed his lips. "I'll go wait by the door for the doctor in a minute, but is there anything you need before I do?" he asked.

"I could use a cup of chamomile ...."

"Sure," Jimmy nodded, disappearing.

Thomas started tossing and turning moments later, panting and wincing, and John wondered if it was memories or the absence of Jimmy that was upsetting him. Then Thomas bolted upright, clenching his blighted hand in soundless agony as if the wound in it were fresh, rather than the one on his shoulder or in his leg. His eyes flew open and, apparently taking in his surroundings, he lay back with clear relief, breathing deeply. Isis butted at his hand with her head, and Thomas petted her absently.

John knew better than to ask about the nightmare -- he had a few of his own from the war. He had felt some disgust when Thomas had come home with the blighty, though. And then he hadn't thought about it for ages. He thought on it now, through the eyes of a friend, and suddenly felt guilty for having looked upon Thomas so poorly for the wound, realising that it was his dislike of the man that had really made him consider the wound shameful. He'd assumed Thomas had avoided combat, but then, vain fellow that he tended to be, even now, it would have taken some pretty hellish circumstances for the man to be willing to do that to himself. If John hadn't been legitimately injured, might he himself have sought out such a wound eventually?

"Nightmare?" he asked; obviously Thomas wasn't "all right", so there was no point in asking if he was.

"Bit o' one, yeah," Thomas admitted with a faint smile, covering his eyes with one arm. "Thought I'd left the war dreams behind me a long time ago."

"Oh, you never really lose them, just bury them. What you went through today would be plenty to _un_ bury them for a bit."

"Well, hand me a shovel so I can bury them again," Thomas chuckled.

"Oh! You _are_ awake!" Jimmy noted as he returned, bringing in a tray with three cups and a teapot. "Thought I could use a cup myself, and brought an extra just in case."

John helped Thomas sit up while Jimmy poured. 

"Chamomile? Guess that will have to do until I can have some more morphine," Thomas quipped, winking at Jimmy.

Jimmy grinned. "Maybe I didn't need to call the doctor after all!"

"The _doctor?_ Oh, _tell_ me you didn't wake him!" Thomas winced.

"It's not _that_ late," John assured him. "And you _collapsed_ , Thomas, _and_ you have a fever. Even if it turns out to be nothing, better he waste a trip than not come when you need it."

That didn't seem to mollify Thomas. "Thanks, _dad_ ," he said with a good-natured rolling of the eyes.

John smiled, and not just because it amused him. He wouldn't have thought so a year ago, but nowadays, one could do a lot worse than have Thomas for a son. Was there some way he could let the man's real father know that?

Jimmy left for door duty then, still grinning as he went.

Thomas sighed. "I suppose I ought to forgive him, haven't I?"

John blinked. "For calling the doctor? Yeah, you probably should ..." John chuckled.

Thomas looked confused, then shook his head, smiling. "No, I mean _Clarkson_." His smile faded, and his eyes got a faraway look. Whatever he was looking at, it wasn't a happy thing. "Over Edward."

"Edward?" And then John remembered. "Your friend at the hospital."

Thomas nodded, one hand gripping the blanket, the other, stroking the dog's ear. "I know Clarkson's hands were tied, and he had others to think about. He couldn't make the world stop for one man to catch up. But every time I see him, I just ...."

John nodded. "He's a trigger."

Thomas looked at him then. "Trigger?"

"Kind of like that man was for you earlier today, reminding you of the war. You see Clarkson, and that moment when you learned your friend was dead is suddenly as fresh as if it had just happened. Clarkson was a doctor, and that man's life was in his hands, and you feel like maybe he wasn't as careful as he ought to have been."

Thomas nodded slowly, eyes falling back to the blanket.

"Maybe Clarkson felt the same way after," John posed. " I don't doubt that every time a doctor loses a patient, they wonder if there wasn't something they didn't do and should have, I wouldn't be a doctor for all the money in the world -- and It's got to be all the harder when the patient is someone you know."

Thomas pursed his lips. "You're right. It's not like Clarkson was dealing with something easily diagnosable, either. And God knows I've _intentionally_ done some horrible things that I've still been forgiven for," he added, meeting John's eyes, gratitude in his own.

John nodded with a smile. "That's the spirit," he said, patting the under-butler's hand.

~ * * * ~  
"Hello again," Dr Clarkson greeted when Jimmy opened the door. "You said on the phone that he has a fever?"

"Yes, sir," Jimmy replied, taking his coat.

"Any other symptoms?"

Jimmy hesitated. He didn't want to say anything about the delusions, between not wanting to pry into the man's private affairs and fearing Thomas might be institutionalized, but with the fever ... what if not saying anything made the doctor miss something life-threatening? "Mr Carson said we should say if Mr Barrow had any delusions ...."

"And has he?"

"Not since we got back -- not that I know of -- but when we found him, he thought he was back in the war."

Clarkson nodded. "That's quite understandable, given the circumstances. And it's a good sign, him not having had another _since_ then, _especially_ with a fever. Is he in the attic?"

Jimmy shook his head and beckoned for the man to follow, leading the man to the sitting room. Jimmy didn't step into the room himself, figuring the doctor and Thomas would want privacy again, but he did poke his head in to announce Clarkson's arrival. His heart skipped a worried beat when he saw the haunted look on his friend's face. It was gone in an instant, but the polite smile that replaced it was brittle and didn't reach his eyes. Well, Jimmy supposed no one was eager to see a doctor as a patient ....

Bates left the room then, and he and Jimmy went into the servant's hall, to wait for word from the doctor. The sipped tea in awkward silence for several minutes.

Clarkson came in before long, putting them out of their misery. "His fever is broken -- I think he's out of the woods, but give him plenty of fluids, and don't hesitate to call if the fever comes back. I've given him another dose of morphine for tonight, so he can sleep, but you can give him aspirin otherwise."

"Thanks, Dr Clarkson," Jimmy replied, sighing and sharing a relieved look with Bates. "I'll show you out."

When Jimmy came back to the sitting room, he found Bates looking in from the hall, smiling fondly. "I was going to wish him goodnight, but he's already out cold, it seems."

Jimmy slipped past him, and found Thomas snoring lightly with a slight smile on his face, and Isis snuggled up to him in the chair, sound asleep herself.


	2. Skeletons in the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two guests from Thomas Barrow's past come to Downton -- one with sexually abusive intentions that may mean trouble for hall boy Bradley as well. (Note: the abuse, which is aimed at Thomas, is only alluded to, not graphically depicted, save for a few life-threatening moments involving a gun and a noose. The abuse is *not* meant to titillate. It's a pretty dark situation, though, and I whump the crap out of poor Thomas.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genres/Themes for this Chapter:** Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Character Study, Whumpage, Sexual Abuse, Questionable Consent/ Non-Con / Rape (not descriptive), PTSD, Shellshock, Life-Threatening Encounters, May Squick  
>  **Prominent Characters in this Chapter:** Thomas, Jimmy, Mrs Hughes, Carson, Lord Grantham, Mrs Patmore, the Duke of Crowborough, and two OMCs (including Bradley)  
>  **Relationships Featured in this Chapter:** Friends: Thomas / Jimmy, Thomas / Mrs Hughes, Thomas / OMC (Bradley), Thomas / Lord Grantham (sort of), Thomas / Carson (sort of), Thomas / Isis, Thomas / DoC (sort of). Antagonistic: Thomas / OMC (Lord Hardwood)  
>  **Length** : almost 28,000 words  
>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, John Bates, Anna Bates, Alfred Nugent, Isis the dog, Beryl Patmore, Tom Branson, Edith Crawley, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Mary Crawley, Philip / the Duke of Crowborough, Ivy Stuart, and Richard Clarkson © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

_January 27th, 1922_  
Thomas was beginning to despair of ever feeling normal again.

He'd been cleared for light duty a month ago, but it still hurt a fair bit to climb the stairs, so that duty mostly consisted of maintaining books, polishing silver, and other sedentary activities, save for short walks with Isis, who had bounced back more easily from her own wound. Between his leg injury and having been laid up a short while before then when he'd intervened with Jimmy's mugging, Thomas thought he ought to be glad to be out and about, but the truth was he was dreading it a little, afraid he wouldn't be able to keep up with the hustle and bustle of a party. As it was, his sore leg trembled when he put weight on it for more than thirty seconds.

And now the _other_ leg was threatening to tremble. He told himself it was just because of the cold (even if it was unusually warm for this time of year), and most assuredly _not_ because of the latest person to step out of a car in front of the house.

_Philip ...._

Thomas hated the way his heart skipped a moment, like it had forgotten the ache the man had put in it. And then burning anger flooded through him as he remembered how Philip had broken his word and humiliated him. (He supposed this was one way to keep warm ....) He struggled to keep his face a mask of ice.

What was the man even doing there? Surely His Lordship would never invite him to their shooting party, not after what happened with Lady Mary! (Unless it was to see the man shot ...?) A flick of his eyes towards His Lordship revealed that the man was indeed as flummoxed as Thomas himself was to see the duke.

Lady Mary didn't look much better off as she reservedly welcomed a female friend with an exchange of kisses on cheeks. "Betty, so lovely to see you again. And Your Grace! What a surprise!" she said over the woman's shoulder.

"Oh, you've met?" Betty asked, pouting a little. "His Grace is married to my cousin, Lisa," she explained, reaching out and drawing another woman close, "and they've come for a surprise visit. It was either bring them with or stay home -- hope you don't mind?"

"Of course not," Mary said graciously. "Welcome back, Your Grace." She held out her hand, which Philip kissed. Thomas had known the woman long enough to see through her plastic smile that she was extremely disgusted.

"Lisa and I will share a room, so we can catch up," Betty said, patting her cousin's hand. "I trust you can manage without my cousin for a couple of nights in the bachelor's wing, Your Grace?"

"I seem to remember it being rather comfortable, yes," Philip agreed. "But I will need a valet, I'm afraid, having left mine in America." He looked over at the line of servants.

"Thomas! You're still here! It's been what, ten years or so?" Philip said, a note of disbelief in his voice as approached. Thomas thought he detected a note of merriment as well, and guessed that the duke's words were meant to sting -- which they did. Philip glanced down the line, then back at Thomas. "I'm confused by your livery -- are you still a footman?"

"Under-butler. Your Grace," he added with effort.

"Well, congratulations! I suppose this means you're not available as a valet?"

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace," Thomas replied, glad of the excuse to say no.

Philip tsked. "Pity. I know how good you are."

 _Yes, well you had your chance, didn't you?_ But Thomas was puzzled now -- was there a note of wistfulness there? Did the man really think Thomas would just hop back into bed with him, after how he'd left things between them?

"Well, then, how about this bright young man?" Philip asked, stepping before Jimmy.

It took everything Thomas had not to scream for the duke to keep his bloody hands off his friend.

"Oh, of course you get the best one, Philip!" cane a voice from the latest car to pull up.

A voice all-too-familiar and even more unwelcome.

It didn't even occur to Thomas not to look, to keep facing forward like he was supposed to. He considered it a miracle he didn't let out a cry of dismay as he took in the sight of the bear of a man getting out of the vehicle. The hair was a little greyer, the face more lined, but he would never forget this man, no matter how hard he tried. Nightmares of the trenches were preferable to ones of _him_.

"Hardwood." Philip's greeting was stiff. Thomas almost thawed towards the duke for a moment for that.

"Well, then, I suppose this lad will do," Hardwood said, placing a heavy hand on the shoulder of the next person in line.

And as Alfred was already inside, valeting, that person was young Bradley, who had been elevated to footman for the shooting party weekend.

It was all Thomas could do to remain upright. Every particle in him screamed no, but what could he say? That this aristo had tortured him repeatedly? No one would believe him! (And if they did, he would probably be arrested right alongside the man.) But he couldn't let Bradley fall into the monster's hands, either ....

"Perhaps our Mr Barrow should attend you, sir," Carson weighed in. Thomas was torn between panic and agreement. "Our Bradley here is barely a footman; he has no valeting experience."

"Oh, I don't mind inexperience!" Hardwood insisted. Then, glancing at Thomas, recognition lit his eye. A faint smile played with the corners of his mouth. "But if you insist ...."

"But Mr Barrow is still hurt!" Bradley protested.

"It's fine, Bradley. I'll be all right." To prove it, Thomas picked up the man's suitcases, carrying them inside and up the stairs, ignoring the burning ache in his leg and the terror in his heart. Hearing Hardwood's footstep's behind him, he even picked up the pace -- would have _run_ , if he could.

"I never thought to see _you_ again," Hardwood said as he closed the door behind them.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, sir."

Hardwood laughed heartily, but despite its warmth, Thomas was chilled by the sound.

"Really, Thomas, did you think I wouldn't remember?" He stepped closer, crowding Thomas against the wardrobe. His voice dropped to a low rumble as he spoke right in the under-butler's ear. "Very noble of you, taking the boy's place like that. I wonder, though -- did you think yourself safe from me just because of how old you are? I might prefer veal, but that doesn't mean I don't indulge in aged steak now and then, if that's the only option. For that matter, you were damn fine veal even at the cusp of adulthood ...." He stroked the back of a finger down the under-butler's cheek; Thomas shuddered in both fear and revulsion. "The more I think on it, the more curious I am as to your flavour after years of smoke." Hardwood chuckled. "I'm sure you realise, of course, that if you mention anything that happens in this room, even if your employer should believe you, no one outside of Downton would. And accusations towards someone of my stature by someone of yours never go over well ...." He nipped Thomas on the neck, lightly.

Thomas knew it was by far the gentlest treatment he would receive from Hardwood during the man's stay.

"Oh, and one more thing. If you don't cooperate? I'll find a way to trade you for your young friend after all ...."

Hardwood left then, leaving the door partially open. Thomas choked back a sob. His legs finally gave out, and he slide down against the wardrobe, holding his face in his hands. He spent a long moment trying to pull himself together, before he heard Philip's voice coming from the hallway, saying a parting farewell to his temporary valet. Fear of Hardwood overridden for a moment by concern for Jimmy, Thomas waited until Philip's footsteps faded, then hurried to the next room. The door was open, and he peeked inside, finding Jimmy putting Philip's things away.

Thomas stepped in and quickly shut the door.

"Mr Barrow?" Jimmy asked, looking confused and maybe even a little wary. It pained Thomas to see that, but he pushed it aside, reminding himself that they had agreed Jimmy must call him Mr Barrow when not in an empty servant's hall or the attic.

"Did Philip try anything?" he asked in a rush.

"What?" Jimmy then whispered, "Did you just call a _duke_ by his _Christian name?_ "

Propriety said they should refer to him as the duke, the Duke or Crowborough, or His Grace, but Philip had allowed Thomas to call him just Philip -- and after how things had gone down, Thomas didn't feel inclined to show him any respect when no one was watching.

"Yes. And I assume your answer is no." He should have guessed that in the first place, really, since Philip hadn't gone running to His Lordship crying assault, and Jimmy was currently in an amiable mood.

"What do you mean by him trying anything, anyway?" Jimmy asked.

Thomas didn't say a word, just gave Jimmy a pointed look.

"Oh!" Jimmy said after a moment. "OH! You two ...?"

"It was a long time ago," Thomas said, sagging against the wall and raking a shaking hand through his hair, desperate for a cigarette. He was _not_ going to last the next few days. "Just ... if he comes on to you, don't punch him, okay? I'm pretty sure if you feign innocence, he won't press the issue." _Unlike_ some _people ...._

Jimmy chuckled and went back to work. "Okay, thanks for the warning." He paused, hands still on the shirt he'd just hung up. He looked at Thomas, all mirth apparently traded for concern. "I'm guessing things went south between you. It must be hard, seeing him again, then. Are you okay?"

Thomas let out a breath and blinked back the stinging in his eyes. "Yes, it did; yes, it is; and no, not really. But it's just today, tomorrow, and the day after -- maybe Monday morning, too. I'll live." _I hope._ "I'm gonna need a smoke after I finish with the luggage -- stop by when you're done here, eh?"

Jimmy smiled faintly, nodding. Thomas started to leave.

"Thomas?" Jimmy said quietly.

"Yeah?" Thomas didn't meet his eyes.

"You know that you can talk to me, right? About anything. I mean it."

Tears welled up in the under-butler's eyes for a whole new reason. A couple of months ago, that certainly wouldn't have been true, but they'd hung out a little each day after the mugging, while Thomas healed up and even beyond that. And then Thomas had gotten shot, and they'd spent even _more_ time together, Jimmy taking all his meals in the under-butler's room, and spending quite a few nights camped out there to look after Thomas. With all that time together, they talked a lot -- about inconsequential things at first, but eventually to deeper and deeper concerns. It was Jimmy who broached the subject of romance, saying that it was only right that he make the effort to understand views other than the ones he'd known and broaden his horizons.

"Thank you, Jimmy. I appreciate that. I just ... not right now." With that, he left, wiping tears from his eyes as he returned to Hardwood's room.

Soon, he finished with the first suitcase, and turned to the second with trepidation. He knew this case -- knew what was probably inside it, as surely as he knew that Hardwood normally kept it locked, and kept the key on him at all times. Doubtless it was only unlocked now because Hardwood wanted to give Thomas a reminder of what the following days would have in store for him.

Opening the case, a layer of sheets met the under-butler's eyes; he felt like his insides liquefied at the sight. Hardwood had reasons to bring his own linens, and they didn't bode well for whomever he ended up with. Lifting the layer of fabric, Thomas cried out a little, quickly covering his mouth as he backed away in horror. There before him were terrifyingly familiar items (or their very similar replacements), items that had caused him a great deal of misery once upon a time -- clamps, batons, needles, leather straps, ropes, and some other things he had no words for; beneath was a layer of towels and wash-clothes. Hurriedly replacing the items he'd removed, Thomas closed the case and covered it with the first, for good measure, as if the horrors inside could act of their own volition and come after him.

As if he could save himself from what he knew the days ahead would bring.

"Thomas?" came Jimmy's voice behind him, startling him nearly out of his skin. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you!"

Thomas laughed nervously. "'S okay. Let's go get me that smoke now, eh?"

~ * * * ~  
"Oh, and Bradley, I'll need you to polish the silver I've selected for tomorrow evening," Carson said at tea that afternoon.

"Are you sure I can handle it?" Bradley muttered, picking at his food.

Thomas instantly understood what the boy was referring to, and felt a pang of sorrow. He hoped the lad wasn't upset with _him_ over it, even though he'd been relieved Carson had refused to let Bradley have the job.

"What was that?" Carson growled.

"He's just sore over this morning, when you wouldn't let him be a valet," Paul explained, grinning.

"Thank you, Paul, but I believe I was asking Bradley," Carson warned.

Bradley had the sense to look contrite. "I'm sorry, Mr Carson. I just ... have I done something to suggest I couldn't do the work adequately?"

"Do you mean besides not having had any _experience_ as a valet? No."

"Well, then, why not let me shadow Thomas, so I can _learn_?"

"Learning should start with practicing on another _servant_ , _not_ on a _guest_ ," Carson replied firmly.

"But Lord Hardwood _said_ he didn't mind!" Bradley protested.

" _Enough_ , Bradley!" Thomas said, without heat but not hiding his exasperation. "Mr Carson is the boss here, not this guest -- and I'm quite sure His Lordship wouldn't approve of you valeting either! Besides, you have plenty of your own work to do, don't you?"

Bradley looked gobsmacked, hurt in his eyes, before turning wordlessly back to his plate.

"Thank you, Mr Barrow. Now, I hope that's the last of that," Carson weighed in.

Thomas turned back to his own plate; like Bradley, he just pushed food around, his appetite gone.

~ * * * ~  
Thomas should have known.

He knew he was in for a night of unpleasantness, but it hadn't occurred to him that it might start before the dinner bell!

"I'm afraid I need a little something taken care of before I can be considered presentable for dinner," Hardwood said, gesturing to the tenting in his pants. And so Thomas found himself facing Hardwood on his knees, the man's hand tight in his hair, Thomas both trying not to gag and resisting the urge to bite down. Swallowing filled him with revulsion, but it was that or spoil their clothes. Thomas wanted to refuse Hardwood's offer of a mint after, but didn't dare, for fear of what punishment offending the man might earn him (and, well, he needed to get the taste of Hardwood out of his mouth somehow).

With so many guests -- about fifteen people, plus the family -- there was no getting out of serving at dinner. Hardwood shot Thomas a look now and then, but otherwise made no effort towards acknowledging the under-butler. Thomas struggled to keep his mind blank of thoughts of later -- and to keep the tremor out of his hands. He didn't know if he wanted the night to go quickly or not -- the wait seemed as much a torture as his dread of what was to come!

And then it was time. The under-butler's hands shook almost uncontrollably as he undressed Hardwood, his heart racing. _Maybe I'll die of a heart attack first and save myself the grief...._

"Unpack the suitcase next," Hardwood ordered lowly with an evil grin. Thomas knew what to do, laying a sheet down on the floor and various tools on the dressing table. Hardwood preferred to stay in the dressing room, providing an extra sound buffer -- and a bit of cover if someone should enter unannounced.

"Shall I ...?" Thomas couldn't bring himself to say the words, so he just gestured towards his clothes.

Hardwood nodded. Despite wanting the whole ordeal over with, Thomas slowly stripped, both out of dread and the knowledge that this was how Hardwood liked it -- disappointing him was unwise. Hardwood picked up a kerchief, tying it around the under-butler's mouth, and tied the man's wrists behind him. It was all Thomas could do to fight down his rising panic, especially when the man began to roughly prepare him with an oil that burned a little, starting with one finger and then moving on to two, then three.

Hardwood wasn't concerned about his partners beyond the fact that serious tearing could lead to a doctor's visit and questions; while Hardwood might deny any accusations, the man had the sense not to invite trouble. But he enjoyed seeing his lovers suffer, and so the oil still caused pain -- just not the sort that needed medical attention. Thomas understood that some people enjoyed the sorts of things Hardwood did, but Hardwood made a point of finding people who _didn't_ \-- and were powerless to stop him. Anytime the under-butler's body reacted with pleasure to something Hardwood did, Thomas felt ashamed of and disgusted with himself. How could he enjoy anything that involved being forced and degraded? Doubtless Hardwood _knew_ about that sense of shame, too, and it just enhanced the man's own pleasure, knowing that he could make Thomas feel _any_ thing, good or bad, against his will.

Hardwood shoved Thomas down on his knees (Thomas promptly falling forward on his face in the process, thanks to his arms being tied behind him), eliciting a cry of pain through the gag as the under-butler's healing leg screamed in protest. Hardwood then went eagerly to work, being as rough as he could without causing serious bleeding. Thomas was poked, prodded, pinched, yanked, and struck with various things and in various places, all in ways that could bruise and even pull muscle, but not rupture the skin (except when involving needles). He was held in highly uncomfortable positions. Lit cigars were held dangerously close to his flesh, and hot candlewax was dipped on sensitive places.

As Hardwood finally approached his climax, Thomas felt something hard pressed against his skull, and heard an audible click.

He remembered that click from his military days -- and from that terrifying ordeal in the woods, just months past.

"There's a bullet in just one chamber," Hardwood purred. "Let's see if you survive this round." Hardwood slammed his groin hard against him then, straining as he shot something less lethal (but not much less welcome) into Thomas first -- and then pulled the trigger.

Thomas though he was a dead man for a moment, chest heaving as he fought for more air than he could draw in around the gag. The carpet was suddenly mud, muddy as the trench walls around him, and the pain in his disfigured hand, his injured leg, and his shoulder were all blinding, as if the wounds were fresh. Beside him was the body of a man -- the man he'd killed a few months gone.

"Well, you're still amongst the living!" the body remarked -- it was actually Hardwood. Rising, he slapped the under-butler's backside, restoring the world to rights with the impact. It was the only action Thomas would ever thank him for. "Wasn't that exhilarating?" the lord added. He wiped himself off and pulled on his dressing gown, stuffing the pistol into one of the pockets, then wiped the other incriminating items down and threw them back in his case, locking it, before finally untying the under butler's hands. "You're free to go for tonight." With that, Hardwood then headed for bed.

 _He's barking mad!_ Thomas thought to himself as he lie there. _Worse than ever -- as bad as that nutter in the woods!_ Surely there wasn't _really_ a bullet in the gun, was there? Surely it was just a jest meant to scare Thomas -- the man wouldn't risk going to prison for murder, would he? _But he's already pretty sick in the head -- what if he's telling the truth and doesn't care about the risk -- or gets off on it?_ This put a chilling new spin on the question of whether Thomas would survive the weekend!

Thomas had no idea how long after Hardwood had went to bed it was before he'd finally found his feet. Trembling violently, he managed to get himself cleaned off (and out) with some of the cloths and redress. With a swig of whiskey from the decanter in the dressing room, he managed to calm himself enough to make his way back to his room in the attic, thankfully meeting no one on the way.

After changing into his sleepwear, shock wearing off and the events of the evening sinking in, he then went to the lavatory, to disinfect the wounds he could reach. The ones on his prick stung like mad. That done, the night's events caught up with him, and emptied his stomach into the toilet.

There was a knock. "Hello? Everything all right in there?" came Alfred's voice through the door.

"Yes, yes," Thomas assured him after a few failed attempts to get sound out. He wanted desperately to say something about Hardwood's depravity, to let the emotional poison drain, but was also terrified of the notion -- not just of things going badly (like him going to prison while Hardwood got off scot-free), but of anyone finding out what happened to him _period_. His own knowledge of it was humiliating enough! But he was alive. He would survive the weekend too (well, provided the chambers in Hardwood's gun remained empty, would not think about that if he wanted to remain sane), and that would be that. "M-must've eaten something that disagreed with me is all. I'll be done in a minute ...."

He rinsed his mouth out, bushed his teeth, bid Alfred a hurried goodnight, and went to bed. The only good thing to be said for the night was that the stress had exhausted him so much, he went right to dreamless sleep ....

~ * * * ~  
"No, I don't want any!" Thomas snapped at breakfast the next day.

He felt like every eye was on him, and like every bruise was visible through his clothes. Hardwood might as well have used sandpaper on him, he felt so sensitive -- not just in body, but down to his very soul. There were several times that morning where someone brushed against him, and it took everything he had to not scream. It was agony, sitting so close to anyone, but he was afraid sitting at the other end of the table, away from everyone, would draw suspicion. Actually, sitting _period_ was rather unpleasant, but standing to eat would draw even more attention than sitting away from everyone ....

"Okay, you don't need to be so prickly about it -- it's just toast," Anna replied to his outburst, looking bemused as she laid the plate she'd just offered back down.

"Sorry, Anna," Thomas apologized, chagrined and deflated. "I'm just ... out of sorts today, I guess, but that's no excuse."

"Are you still not feelin' all right this mornin', then, Mr Barrow?" Alfred asked.

Thomas supposed it was better to have the man care than have it in for him, but he did wish the lad would mind his own business.

"I'm fine, Alfred," Thomas insisted, not able to keep his frustration out of his words. "Just a little tired."

"You _do_ look a bit pale," Mrs Hughes noted, looking worried.

"'E were sick last night," Alfred reported in hushed tones, as if no one but Mrs Hughes and maybe Carson could hear.

If Thomas had been close enough, he would have kicked the giant oaf under the table. Under different circumstances, he might have liked the concerned look Jimmy gave him just then, but now it made him all the more self-conscious, especially with Carson and everyone else also scrutinizing him as well.

" _Are_ you ill, Mr Barrow?" Carson asked, looking alarmed.

"No, no, I ... just had something yesterday that didn't agree with me." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Well, I certainly hope that's all it was, or I may have to have Bradley look after Lord Hardwood after all," Carson said pointedly, implying that such was unthinkable.

Bradley didn't grasp that, though. "Maybe I _should_ be lookin' after 'im -- I mean, wha' if wha'ever Mr Barrow 'as is contagious?"

"If it were, _you'd_ be sick before he was -- you've been around me longer! Let it go, already -- your time will come, and then half the time, you'll be wishing you were still just a hall boy!" Thomas tried to laugh it off, but Bradley sulked.

"Do you wish _you_ were still a hall boy, Mr Barrow?" Alfred asked.

"Sometimes, yeah." Thomas was a little surprised to realise he felt that way. _Still, it wouldn't help me with Hardwood now -- it'd probably make things_ worse!

~ * * * ~  
Bradley was bringing back the shoes he'd polished earlier that morning, laying a pair beside Lord Hardwood's door, when the door opened.

"Oh! Thank you, lad!" the burly man said with a friendly smile. "Here, a little something for your trouble," he added, pulling something out of his pocket and holding it out.

It was a ten-pound note.

Bradley gawked at it. "S-sir, I couldn't! Mr Carson would be cross!"

"Well, I won't tell him if you won't!" Hardwood then cocked his head, studying Bradley. "Say, aren't you the same lad that I was going to take as my valet yesterday?"

"Er, yes, sir." Bradley was a little confused at having drawn the notice of a lord, but he wasn't about to point out to the man that it was improper for them to talk to each other!

"Sorry about letting them replace you, but I didn't want to be rude to my friend Robert. For the record, I don't think you're too young at all -- you're what, sixteen?"

"Yes, sir!" Just barely.

"Well, my last valet was only _fifteen_ when he started with me. He went away to college recently, though, and I've yet to find a replacement -- hence my needing to rely on your Mr Barrow ...."

"He went to _college?_ " Bradley couldn't imagine ever being able to afford to go on a servant's salary!

"He wants to be a doctor, and I think he'd be a jolly good one, so I paid for him to go with the expectation that he'll work for a while with the Doctor in our village, then take over when the man retires. I gained my lawyer the same way, actually -- he was a footman, and I sent him to school. Twelve years later, he's now a junior partner!"

Bradley's head was reeling. When he was very young, he'd dreamed of being an inventor, but had quickly learned that such dreams were usually well out of reach for someone of his class. It seemed very likely that Thomas would be butler once Carson retired, and never get out of service. And yet this man's employees were going on to careers normally reserved for the upper middle class or better!

"Say ... you wouldn't be interested in coming to work for me? On a probationary basis, of course."

Bradley was speechless.

"Oh, I'm sorry -- I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that! And really, it's bad form of me to try to lure away someone else's employee!"

Bradley found himself alarmed that the man seemed to be withdrawing his offer, but still couldn't find his tongue. Truth be told, until yesterday, he had been very happy at Downton! But could he afford to pass this up?

"Still ... you don't seem very happy here," the man went on, lowering his voice. "Maybe you should talk it over with your family."

"I _do_ have half of today off ...." Bradley said, as much to himself as the lord. He'd requested it for his mother's birthday.

"Well, then! How about I have my man drive you home, and he can answer any questions that you or your parents might have? What time are you leaving?"

"Eleven, sir."

"Well, then, you go to the garage when you're ready and ask for Mr Callum. I'll go make the arrangements right now." And Lord Hardwood started to leave, but paused and turned back. "This is just between us, all right? Like I said, it's bad form to filch an employee from one's host!"

Bradley nodded, ignoring the twinge of guilt. Was he really betraying anyone? Surely no one really cared who he worked for! He had to do this, for his family and his future!

And really, all he was committing to so far was talk ....

~ * * * ~  
Thomas hadn't considered that he might be out with the shooting party, constantly bombarded by gunfire, but Hardwood had insisted upon it. The thing was, even if he _had_ considered it, he'd been out shooting before with no issues. It hadn't occurred to him how shaken he might still be from his ordeal with the serial killer, much less from what had happened just last night.

Not until Hardwood fired his first shot.

There had been other shots fired before that, yards off in the distance by other people, but while they had shaken him a little, they were all far enough away as to not affect him too badly. But this was right in his ear --and maybe who it was doing the shooting made a difference as well. Whatever the case, the next thing he knew, he was on his knees, shivering with cold despite the unseasonable warmth, staring at his gloved hand and seeing a mutilated, bloody palm in its place -- and feeling the hard, cold metal of a pistol against the back of his skull.

"-mas! _THOMAS! Doctor Clarkson, we need you over here!_ "

Suddenly Jimmy was in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. Just like that, everything was back to normal -- almost

"I say, Mr Barrow, are you all right?" came Hardwood's voice from just behind him. Despite everything else being as it should be, Thomas would swear the pistol was still against his head. "I don't understand it -- he just ... _collapsed!_ "

"I'm ... I'm fine, now, Jimmy," Thomas lied, gently pushing him away and struggling to stand with the cane he'd brought for the long excursion. He didn't really want to leave Jimmy's grasp, but the less evidence Hardwood had of Jimmy being of any importance to Thomas, the better. But Jimmy immediately tried to help him to stand, and when Jimmy laid his hand on the under-butler's back, Thomas couldn't bring himself to pull away again, drawing strength from Jimmy's touch even as he winced internally as that hand brushed over bruises and slight burns.

He noticed Philip standing there too -- but of course he would be. Jimmy likely wouldn't be there at all if Philip hadn’t asked Jimmy to load for him. If Thomas were in better spirits, he might, however contrary it might be, worry over how famously they seemed to get along. As it was, Thomas thought he saw pity in the duke's eye, and was unsettled, refusing to look the man's way again and wishing he would go away (without Jimmy).

Clarkson reached them then. "Are you all right, Thomas?"

Thomas really wished people would stop asking him that, because he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep himself from answering truthfully. "Yes, yes, I just lost my footing for a moment."

The looks Jimmy and Clarkson exchanged said they didn't believe him. It didn't help that another shot went off then, just a tad too close, making him jump and his breath come short. Jimmy rubbed his back soothingly, though, and the panic, amazingly, faded as quickly as it had risen.

"I think maybe you've been pushing that leg too hard," Clarkson chided gently, but Thomas had the sense that Clarkson knew what the _real_ problem was: shellshock.

"I'm _fine_ ,"Thomas insisted, suddenly desperate. If Clarkson ordered him to bed, then Bradley would be assigned as Hardwood's valet .... "I just need to be more careful."

"Nonsense!" Hardwood weighed in. "You needn't put on a brave face for me!" Of course not --Hardwood preferred fear on others. "Come, then, Barrow, I'll help you inside!" Hardwood slipped his fingers around the under-butler's elbow, drawing him forward. "You can even rest in my bed -- I'm sure it must be much more comfortable than the cot you probably sleep on every night. We can play cards or something, if you're not too tired."

Thomas knew what Hardwood was getting at. He supposed he ought to be grateful that the man was giving him this out rather than just taking Bradley instead. "Thank you, my lord."

He could see out of the corner of his eye that Philip's look of pity had been traded for one of shock. Thomas flicked him a quick look and a shake of his head, hoping Philip got the warning not to interfere. He continued on with Hardwood, feeling like he was being led to the gallows -- and praying that such was not actually the case.

"That cane will certainly come in handy," Hardwood whispered, making Thomas vehemently wish he'd done without it.

~ * * * ~  
Jimmy watched Thomas walk away with Hardwood a few moments longer, feeling unsettled. Thomas had truly looked terrified when Jimmy had found him on his knees. He was pretty sure it was shellshock. Maybe the thought of being around all the guns was what had made Thomas so ill the night before, and look so pale that morning? But Thomas had looked so determined not to leave Hardwood just now, and had been adamant at breakfast that Bradley not take his place.

Hardwood's words about the bed echoed in his ears. Jimmy knew Thomas had lain with an aristo before -- perhaps the duke was not the only one he had slept with? Were he and Hardwood lovers now, and that was why Philip looked so upset?

Why did this development make Jimmy himself feel angry? While the idea of men loving men still seemed strange to him, he wasn't so disgusted by it anymore. He wanted Thomas to be happy. But watching him walk away with Hardwood holding his arm made Jimmy want to _punch_ something -- preferably Hardwood. There was just something about the man that made his skin crawl.

Jimmy watched Philip then. Was the man jealous? He looked worried, but it seemed to be with more than jealousy, like he was _afraid_ for Thomas ....

~ * * * ~  
They used the bed this time (after covering it with the extra sheets and even towels), Hardwood reasoning that, with everyone off shooting, there was no one to hear them -- at least, no one who would dare say anything -- and the bed made a few positions easier. Thomas might have enjoyed the cushioning if not for the fact that Hardwood brought the cane into it, as promised. And since the shooting party was to last for a few hours, so did the under-butler's torment, with only momentary reprieves all too few in number.

Thomas panicked when Hardwood reached into his nightstand, pulling out the pistol from the night before. Thomas tugged at his bonds, Hardwood having tied him to the bedposts this time. Taking a deep breath, he was about to try to scream around the gag, but Hardwood grabbed him hard by the throat at the first bubble of sound.

"You wouldn't be thinking of crying for help, would you?" Hardwood asked. "Squeal on me, and you'll never see your little friend Bradley alive again."

Thomas felt a wave of cold wash over him, and shivered. Hardwood's smile grew chilling.

"The little fool accepted a ride back to his home with my driver," Hardwood elaborated. "Of course he never made it there, but he is still alive -- for now. But know this: I have some friends here, friends who know how to reach my outside men with a variety of codes and signals, so if any police approach me for questioning, much less arrest me, your little friend will be done for. Of course, in a moment, that might not matter -- and then I'll have the exhilaration of covering up how you died without implicating myself!" he added, letting go of the under-butler's throat. He then popped the cylinder out of the gun and took out the single bullet within it, letting Thomas get a good look. "In case you didn't believe me." He then returned the bullet to its chamber, sun the cylinder, and aimed the gun at Thomas while stroking himself.

Thomas couldn't keep the sudden tears from streaming as he stared down the barrel. There was nothing in his mind but terror, not even the words to beg for his life.

Hardwood fired.

Nothing happened. Thomas wasn't sure if he could take another round of this particular game -- even if he didn't get shot, he might die of fright!

"You'd best go clean up before dressing me for dinner," Hardwood ordered, untying him.

Thomas did, glad for the chance to be away from the man for a bit. What should he do? Was the man telling the truth about Bradley? If he was, would Thomas be risking Bradley's life by going _to_ the police or by _not_ going? If he did go, what would he say? Thomas had no evidence other than Hardwood's own word, which the man surely wouldn't confess to the police. Even if it were discovered that Bradley were missing, that would not support any claim Thomas made that Hardwood was the culprit behind the disappearance. Could he look for Bradley himself? Where would he even start?

_With Bates!_

~ * * * ~  
As time slipped by, Jimmy wanted more and more to ask the duke about Hardwood. By the time he came up with an innocuous way to do so -- and got past his many reservations about broaching the subject with a man who could get him sacked or worse -- it was getting close to time to change for dinner. Knowing that Hardwood was in the room next door, Jimmy didn't relish trying to talk about it in the duke's suite. They were pretty far away from prying ears now, especially with the gunfire. He steeled himself.

"Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace, but am I right in assuming that you ... are not overly fond of Lord Hardwood?"

Philip looked surprised, then wary, as he handed an emptied shotgun over. "Why do you ask?"

"Well ... you seemed alarmed over Mr Barrow's departure. Mr Barrow is my friend, and I must confess that Lord Hardwood leaves me unsettled. I know that you and Mr Barrow are ... _acquaintances_ and have certain ... _interests_ in common -- interests which I suspect Lord Hardwood might share. But I worry for Mr Barrow in the man's company, and I wondered if you felt there are grounds for concern." He handed the man a fresh gun.

Philip was silent as he lined up a shot and took it. "To be honest, yes. I do. You're right in that Hardwood shares an interest with Barrow and me, but he brings ... a rather perverse inclination to the table, I'm afraid. I'd shrugged it off because Hardwood tends to prefer much younger company, but after seeing the state Barrow was in before he went back to the house ... perhaps we would do well to go up early and check on them."

Jimmy nodded, relieved -- until he remembered that Thomas could be in trouble. He was pleased to note that the duke's steps seemed as hurried as his own as the man walked a stride ahead

Thomas was leaving the room already, though, when they arrived. He looked immaculately dressed, as always, but also ill.

"Thomas! Are you all right?" Philip hissed.

Thomas shot a glance back towards the door to Hardwood's suite, a flicker of what Jimmy was sure was fear crossing his face. "Yes, Your Grace," he replied, not meeting their eyes, his smile as fragile as porcelain. "Thank you for asking. I hope the day finds you well." And with that, he went on his way.

Hardwood came out of his room a moment later, nodding at the duke. "Philip."

"Hardwood."

The duke stared icily after the man until he was out of sight, then went to his own room. Once Jimmy was inside, the duke closed and locked the door.

"Hardwood's done something horrible to Thomas, I know it!" he said, pacing the room.

Jimmy couldn't help but notice the increased familiarity with which Philip spoke of Thomas then, and wondered at the strange indignation he felt then, as if the duke had no right to it. He pushed the sentiment aside. "You said he was ... perverse?" Jimmy remembered, feeling clammy, afraid to hear just want the man had meant but also harbouring a guess. "In what way, exactly?"

The duke eyed Jimmy a long moment, clearly taking his measure and debating how much it was safe to say.

"I know you and Mr Barrow were ... _intimate_ ," Jimmy revealed. "I don't know what happened between you, but I'm not going to tell anyone about your proclivities, if that's what you're afraid of. If I were the type to do that, Mr Barrow wouldn't still be here now." Never mind that Jimmy really kind of _had_ been that type, and Thomas had indeed almost been thrown out of Downton because of it.

The duke looked a bit sad then, and nodded. "Are you two ...?"

"Oh, n-no, we're just good friends!" Jimmy almost cringed at his own words, hearing his own desperation to not be mistaken for _that_ , despite his efforts to be more accepting. It wasn't like he had to worry about what the duke thought of him in that regard! Was Jimmy still actually disgusted by the idea deep down, then ...?

"So ... h-he talks about me?" the duke asked. Was that a hopeful smile?

"Er, to be honest, yesterday was the first time." The duke seemed nice, so Jimmy couldn't bring to tell him that Thomas has actually _warned_ him about the man -- but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to _comfort_ the duke either, much less give him hope. Jimmy wasn't quite sure why he felt that way, though ...

"Oh. Well, I suppose I can't blame him if he's cast me from his thoughts. We both played at love, but ... well, Thomas seemed to see me as his ticket to a better life, and ... to be honest, I looked at him as a pawn in the game of aristocracy. Neither of us are trusting enough for love."

"Well ... you seem like you do care some for him, though," Jimmy pointed out, not sure how else to react to the duke's words -- or what it meant for how Thomas felt towards Jimmy, in comparison. "And I care for him too, even if not the way he wants me to." Something about those words didn't ring quite true, but Jimmy didn't have time to reflect on it. "So tell me what you know about Hardwood. Please."

The duke sighed, nodding. "I'm sure you know that men of my stature like to seek the company of others in exchange for monetary compensation." Jimmy nodded warily, sensing that the conversation was going to be entering into uncomfortable territory (more than it already had, anyway). "It should come as no surprise, then that there are places that offer male company to men -- though such places are rarer, more discreet, than those that offer female companions. I have seen Hardwood at once such place, several times, and his tastes are ... well, somewhat infamous.

"Hardwood enjoys the pain of others, you see, and has a wide array of instruments at his disposal to visit that pain upon his bed-partners. The damage is never _too_ serious, and so the man who runs that establishment sees it as worthwhile to allow it -- provided that those with such interests pay extra and don't damage his employees in such a fashion that interferes with their work. But while the pain is fleeting and any potential injuries are superficial, those whom Hardwood has been with tend to seem ... _broken_ , afterwards.

"He was with a young man whom I'd personally known only as a bell-hop in the establishment, not being interested in youths myself. The lad became much changed after being with Hardwood a few times, going from being friendly and even cheeky, to closed-off and somber. I needed to replace a footman, so I took him into my employ, and he eventually confided in me just what sorts of things Hardwood had done to him -- the cuts and bruises and burns he inflicted. Hardwood apparently ignored all his pleas for the pain to stop -- and since pleasuring guests was part of the lad's job, and he needed the job to support his family, he didn't feel he could refuse Hardwood's demands. As far as I'm concerned, though, Hardwood is a rapist, seeing as his victims feel they have no _choice_ but to comply!" he finished with a sneer of disgust.

Jimmy nodded, feeling sick. If Hardwood _was_ raping Thomas, was the man using something to make Thomas be compliant, like blackmail, or just attacking him outright? Whatever the case, would Thomas even ask for help if he needed it?

~ * * * ~  
Thomas didn't get the chance to talk with Bates, who had a private meal with Anna at home that evening. Thomas considered talking to Carson, but feared that, if he did, the man might stand a greater chance of dying of a heart attack that weekend than even Thomas! The under-butler did, at least, gain a piece of information: Bradley had indeed left for his parent's home that afternoon. That still didn't mean for absolute certainty that Bradley had been abducted, but it didn't look good. Thomas had to force himself to eat, just to keep up his strength.

Dinner upstairs was an uncomfortable affair, the way Jimmy and even Philip, curiously, kept staring at Thomas. The under-butler was touched at their concern, but wondered if anyone else -- especially Hardwood or Carson -- noted it. At least the dining room was one place where Thomas didn't have to worry about unwanted attention from Hardwood!

At one point, as Thomas came down to get something from the kitchen, he spotted a harried Mrs Hughes talking with Carson.

"Bradley's mother called -- she says he hasn't made it home yet, and wondered if he'd been detained!" Mrs Hughes was telling the butler.

"What? But he was to leave at eleven!" Carson replied.

"I know! He should have been there several hours ago at least, even walking!"

"Well ... it is his mother's birthday -- maybe he stopped to get her a gift?"

"I hope so, but even that shouldn't have taken so long! You don't think ... maybe he ran away?" Mrs Hughes worried.

"Why should he do that?"

"He was awfully upset about not getting to act as a valet."

"Well, that's not something to take out on his mother!"

"True, and I wouldn't think him the type to. So suppose something _has_ happened to him?"

"Well, it's a bit early yet for _that_ kind of worry."

"It's also dark and cold!" Mrs Hughes countered.

"Too dark to go looking. And he's not exactly a child anymore. Let us give him until morning to turn up on his own. He probably stopped at the pub and lost all his money at cards or something. Or had too much to drink and had a lie-down somewhere."

"And if he's hurt? Unconscious, maybe? Are we not at least somewhat responsible for his welfare, having him live with us?"

Carson was silent a moment, then sighed. "I will broach the subject to His Lordship. We are _his_ resources -- let _him_ decide what should be done."

Thomas was rooted to the spot with indecision, all through the conversion. Should he say what he knew? It wasn't like he knew where to look -- or like questioning Hardwood would gain any results other than to tip Hardwood off that Thomas had defied him. Bradley might pay the ultimate price, then! But that was assuming Hardwood would keep his word. And what if His Lordship agreed that it was too early to look for Bradley? What if the boy _was_ hurt?

"Wait!" Thomas said, staying Carson as the man moved to go back upstairs. Mrs Hughes stopped too, staring. "There's something you need to know," he added, herding them into Carson's office and shutting the door. "Hardwood has abducted Bradley. He told me shortly before we started preparing for dinner."

 _"WHAT?!_ " Carson and Mrs Hughes bellowed in tandem.

"He said that he promised to have his chauffer drive Bradley home, and now has the poor lad held up somewhere," Thomas explained.

"And you didn't _tell_ us?" Carson asked, flummoxed.

"Because he promised to hurt Bradley if I did! He also said that Bradley would _die_ if he was _arrested_ \-- he claims he has accomplices here that would make it known if he was detained or approached by police in any way. I don't know how much we can trust what he says, but I think we better take him at his word. I have no idea where he's _keeping_ Bradley, though, and I'm at a loss as to what to do. If we start looking, Hardwood might relocate him or do worse, but if we _don't_ find Bradley in time, Hardwood might kill the boy anyway rather than let him go. He's insane!" The under-butler's voice broke a little at that, and tears formed in his eyes.

Mrs Hughes laid a concerned hand on his arm, and he jerked a little, as it touched a sore spot. "Thomas ... _why_ did he take Bradley in the first place?" Something in her voice suggested she knew why Thomas had jumped at the contact.

"To ... ensure my ... _complicity_ ," Thomas ground out bitterly, eyes on the floor and hands balled tight into fists.

"In ... in the bedroom, you mean?" Mrs Hughes asked in a whisper, horror in her voice.

"Mrs Hughes!" Carson was, of course, scandalised by her talk.

Ignoring Carson's delicate sensibilities, Thomas nodded, closing his eyes as tears began to fall. He drew in a shaky breath. "I knew Hardwood, long ago -- well enough to know that his tastes ran more towards boys Bradley's age, and in ways that were ... p-painful. And it seemed he remembered me quite fondly -- at least by his standards."

"You _knew_ he would hurt you, but you agreed to be his valet anyway?" Mrs Hughes seemed baffled, but light dawned quickly. "To keep him away from Bradley and the rest of the hall boys ...."

Nodding, Thomas wished he was in a better place mentally, so as to enjoy the pride in her voice. "Better to sacrifice what Hardwood's already broken than offer him up something new, 'ey?" He managed a wan smile as he dared to half look her way.

There were tears in her eyes; Thomas couldn't bear to see that, and looked away again.

"But why didn't you just _tell_ me that he was dangerous?" Carson asked, as if talking about homosexual activities were the most commonplace thing in all the world -- or as if they were talking about something else altogether, a threat that hadn't involved sexual inclinations. "I wouldn't have sent _you_ into the lion's den any more than I would Bradley!"

"And what _could_ you have done, then?" Thomas countered without any heat. "Tell His Lordship that I accused Hardwood, his old school chum, of being depraved? Or just say that no one is to act as a valet for him, despite there being a butler, an under-butler and three hall boys still free? How could we refuse Hardwood hospitality without revealing to everyone _why_? One lord accusing another of being a rapist, just on the word of a lowly servant -- imagine the scandal _then!_ " he finished bitterly.

Thomas turned away then, leaning against a cabinet, covering his mouth to keep any sobs from escaping, mortified to be losing his composure like this. He was so tired. He hadn't felt this ... _defeated_ since he'd nearly been thrown out -- not even when the serial killer had shot him. And he was having a hard time believing things would turn out all right _this_ time ....

"Oh, _Thomas!_ " Mrs Hughes laid a hand on his back, but he pulled away again, hand raised in a signal for her to stop.

" _Don't!_ " He immediately regretted his harshness. "I'm sorry, but ... please, I just ... _can't_ ...." Even if he wasn't bruised and battered, he couldn't have taken her pity -- a reminder that he was to _be_ pitied.

She nodded, understanding, "Of course, dear." She was crying full-out now, and it was killing him -- both that she was crying for him and that he was _making_ her cry. He wasn't sure which made him feel worse.

Straightening himself up, Thomas addressed Carson without quite looking at him. "Mr Carson, believe me when I say that Hardwood is dangerous and unpredictable. His ... illness seems to only have gotten worse since we met all those years ago. He's fired a pistol at me _twice_ now--" Mrs Hughes gasped at that "--not even as a threat, but simply to frighten me half to death, saying that there was one bullet in it and spinning the cylinder!"

"Thomas ..." Carson began, his voice surprisingly gentle, "... I am truly, _truly_ sorry that all this has happened to you. I commend you for your sacrifice on Bradley's behalf, but I will not stand for anyone in this house being abused or threatened! I don't care if Hardwood is a lord, I _will_ be telling His Lordship about this--"

"But--"

"--after the man is gone, if not sooner. We might be powerless at the moment, but we will _not_ allow that monster back into the house once we're quit of him. I'm sure no one will think a thing of it if His Lordship simply never invites the man here again."

"We should do more than that!" Mrs Hughes protested. "The man threatened Thomas and Bradley both with murder! He's a threat to the safety of everyone around him! We can't let him go free to kill someone elsewhere, much less keep him here minute longer!"

"And if we can think of some way to get him arrested that won't end with our Mr Barrow in jail as well, we will," Carson assured her with a calm conviction that astounded Thomas, though the man did look pale and even sounded a bit faint.

 _Our Mr Barrow?_ Maybe Carson was just worried about scandal, but he and Thomas _had_ grown friendlier in the past year -- apparently closer than Thomas had realised. Considering just how often Carson would have been glad to be rid of Thomas in the past -- a feeling that was mutual -- Thomas was touched at the possessive reference to him.

"But like it or not," Carson went on, "this man has connections and power that we do not, greater than even His Lordship. So, first thing's first -- we should try to find Bradley. I will tell his Lordship that Bradley's mother called. Surely Hardwood would think it out of the ordinary if Bradley's mother _didn't_ call," he pointed out when Thomas would have protested. "I will be sure to impose upon His Lordship that we must look for Bradley as a matter of duty."

"And what about Thomas?" Mrs Hughes asked, clearly getting annoyed that Carson hadn't posed a real solution on that point yet. Thomas still wasn't sure how he'd ever gotten into her good book, but he hoped he never left it again!

"We tell Hardwood that he's fallen ill, and that _I_ shall act as his valet. From what Thomas says, I doubt very much the man will try anything with _me_. And we'll make sure that he's watched any time he sets foot outside of his room. He won't be able to go anywhere without tripping over a bevy of servants."

The idea that the man would have no interest in Carson was very likely true, but still .... "You playing his valet won't work -- he'll be upset that I'm gone at the very least, and probably guess that something's up. Either way, he'll likely take his frustration out on Bradley when he finally leaves -- if he doesn't send a signal to have it done before then, hurt and maybe even kill him," Thomas pointed out. "I can survive this--" _provided he doesn't shoot me_ "--but I couldn't live with myself if Bradley were hurt or worse. My comfort and pride isn't worth more than the boy's life." Carson and Hughes both looked about to protest -- probably to remind him that _his_ life was at stake as well -- but Thomas kept going. "Besides, if His Lordship demands that we all help search for Bradley, Hardwood won't have a _chance_ to do something to me." Thomas took a deep breath. "Now. I'll go upstairs first. Mr Carson, you go up a minute or two later -- act like nothing's wrong, for the moment. Mrs Hughes, you come up a minute or two after _that_ and present Carson with the message from Bradley's mum. Carson, you read it, then request a word with His Lordship. Hopefully, that will keep Hardwood from thinking I squealed on him ...."

Carson and Mrs Hughes played their parts well. Lord Grantham appealed to his guests to help look for the lost boy, and every guest agreed. Carson, the footmen, the maids (including Anna and even Mrs Hughes), the kitchen girls, and the remaining hall boys were enlisted, with Bates given the task of manning the front door and the phone, and Mrs Patmore the job of making sandwiches and tea. Thomas worried that Hardwood might try to shirk off the hunt by mentioning that Dr Clarkson had told Thomas to stay off the leg and offering to keep Thomas company, but the man did not -- probably realising that, given the emergency, staying behind for a servant's sake would seem like just an excuse to stay out of the cold and make him look bad amongst his peers. So the pair ended up outside with everyone else, volunteering for the teams that stayed near the house (as opposed to one of the groups that took a car down the road).

It didn't last long, though.

Half an hour later found them at the stable (the stablehands having been recruited in the hunt for Bradley), and any last hope Thomas had died. Truth be told, he supposed he ought to be grateful Hardwood hadn't decided to have a go out in the woods. With a heavy heart, he stumbled as the man shoved him into a stall, trying not to think about the riding crops or spurs near, or even the pokey bits of hay -- and praying that there were no branding irons around.

He didn't have much time to dwell on what possible torments awaited him before the world suddenly went dark.

~ * * * ~  
"If you won't tell him, I will," Robert heard Mrs Hughes mutter to Carson, and grew alarmed.

"Tell me what?" he wondered, sitting forward in the back seat of the car, so he could better see her.

He saw Carson look pensively towards Branson, who was driving, their regular driver having already taken Cora and the girls onward, in the other car, to the home of Bradley's parents.

"It seems, milord," Carson began, "that Hardwood has claimed that he had his driver abduct young Bradley."

" _WHAT?_ "

Branson jerked the car, startled, but quickly righted the vehicle.

"Why didn't you say something back at the house?" Robert demanded, disbelieving that Carson, of all people, should keep something like that from him. "How do you even know?"

"The man has threatened the life of another one of the staff, and was using the threat of harm to Bradley as a means of leverage against this person."

"He threatened ...? Whatever for?" Robert just couldn't wrap his head around it. He'd known Hardwood since his college days! The man was a bit of a scoundrel, but ... _kidnapping? Threats?_

"It seems ... he knew this person from years ago, and ... _abused_ them for his own amusement. He'd ..." Carson looked like he was going to be ill. "He'd apparently enjoyed it so much, he'd decided to revisit those days, and threatened to instead abuse Bradley if this person did not comply. We did not tell you because we were afraid of tipping Hardwood off to what we knew, and that he might then harm the boy. As it is, we only just found out about it right before telling you that Bradley's mother was looking for him," Carson hurriedly added. "She gave us a reason to get everyone looking without arousing Hardwood's suspicion. We do not, alas, know where the boy was taken."

"Well, we need to turn around and question him!" Robert insisted, enraged that his supposed chum would harm someone under his roof. "I'll beat it out of him myself if I have to!"

"That's just it," Mrs Hughes broke in. "He apparently insists that he has others working with him, and that they can give a signal that will alert his man to kill the boy if he comes under threat."

Robert felt ill. "Diabolical ...." To think he'd ever called such a twisted soul friend. Then something else occurred to him. "He'd wanted Bradley to be his valet, but then let you assign Barrow to him instead -- are you saying ...?"

Carson looked alarmed, glancing between Robert and Branson.

"Mr Carson, you needn't worry -- it's not like I don't know about Mr Barrow," Branson said over his shoulder. "You're not exactly spilling state secrets on that point."

"Yes, milord," Carson confirmed to Robert, still looking vastly uncomfortable, "Mr Barrow _is_ the one whom Hardwood has been threatening."

"So, he and Barrow were ... forgive me for saying it, Mrs Hughes, but lovers, yes?" Abuse for pleasure's sake often involved sex, didn't it? "How exactly did _that_ come about, a servant being with a lord?" he asked, feeling betrayed by both Hardwood _and_ Barrow now. In light of how helpful Barrow had eventually become, he sometimes forgot how conniving Barrow could be. Had Barrow seduced one of his own guests? How many _other_ guests might the man have foisted himself upon?

"How does it usually come about?" Mrs Hughes said with surprising heat. "Do you think Thomas is the first servant ever to be manhandled by a guest? Who do you believe to hold the power between an aristocrat and a servant? How easily could a servant say no? Especially when threatened at _gunpoint?_ "

"Mrs Hughes!" Carson snapped.

"No, no, Carson, she's right," Robert said, looking out the window, his thoughts going faster than the car.

Not that Thomas _couldn't_ have seduced the man, but Hardwood could have easily said no, whereas the opposite was not true. And whether or not their first time had been a matter of Barrow doing the seducing, clearly _this time_ , considering the circumstances, was not. It wasn't exactly unheard of that maids were raped -- it only seemed logical, then, that a male servant could be, if that's what the rapist preferred. And just because a man liked men liked to lie with other men didn't mean it wasn't rape if he was _forced_ to be with someone. How could it _not_ be a matter of force in this case, if Hardwood had resorted to abduction and death threats?

Robert remembered then that they all were supposed to be watching the ides of the road for the boy, but did it matter now? It wasn't likely that Bradley would be walking--

"Is that him?" Branson asked, pointing to a lone figure alongside the road.

~ * * * ~  
Bradley wondered how long he had been asleep.

As the driver had let him into the car, the man had suddenly covered his face with a cloth. The next thing he'd known, he'd woken up in a small, dark space, which he eventually figured out was the boot of the car. His wrists and ankles were bound together (not just wrist to wrist, but wrist to ankle as well) and his mouth gagged, but he'd yelled and trashed about cried as best he was able before starting to feel like he was running out of air and apparently passing out. He wondered, for a somewhat incoherent moment, how much longer he might have slept if his bladder hadn't woken him. Then, remembering his situation, he began screaming and semi-kicking all over again.

He exhausted himself pretty quickly. Air still seemed scarce; he hoped it was just because of his exertion (and his panicking) and not _actually_ that it was running out! His arm was getting cramped, being on his side for so long, so he struggled to turn over -- and felt something jab him bluntly in the back.

His mother's birthday present.

Bradley almost laughed. There was a hole in the pocket of his coat, and things kept slipping out of it into the lining of his jacket. Factor in that his gift was such a small little thing, if his captor had even checked his pockets at all, the man could -- and apparently did -- still miss it. It took a lot of work, but Bradley managed to work the object back into his pocket, then out of his jacket and into his hands.

His mother had complained that she never had anything sharp on hand when she'd needed it, to cut strings or open boxes and such, so he got her a very small pocketknife.

It took quite a while of awkward slicing to cut the bonds on his wrists enough to work free, but a considerably shorter time to free his feet. All appendages released, he finally managed to kick the boot open.

The car was hidden a field, and abandoned. He picked a direction and started walking (as soon as he'd taken care of his bladder and more of the feeling returned to his feet).

He met his assailant again along the way.

They were in a wooded area by that point. The man drew a pistol; Bradley threw himself behind a tree. The man fired off what seemed an impossible amount of shots before the gunfire died. Bradley hurried out as the man tried to re-load, and launched himself at the driver. The man was tipsy enough to give Bradley an advantage, and after a brief bit of struggle, the driver was out cold, Bradley having wrestled away the man's pistol and brained him with the grip. Taking the gun and the ammo, Bradley hurried onward.

Before long, he found a dirt road, and followed it; in turn, the dirt road intersected with the main one, a sign pointing to Downton one way and the village the other. Knowing that his mother must be worried sick, he set off for the village, thinking to see her first and then contact the police.

He didn't get very far before a car started pulling up, honking. He panicked for all of three seconds before he realised he knew the car and its driver, and neither were the ones involved with his abduction. He started hurrying towards it. His eyes went wide when His Lordship, Mr Branson, Mr Carson, and Mrs Hughes poured out of the vehicle.

"Oh, thank Heavens you're safe!" Mrs Hughes said, hugging him tight.

"Safe? How did you even know what had happened?"

His Lordship, Branson, and the servants exchanged strange glances. "Your mother called when you didn't show," Mrs Hughes explained.

"I'm sorry I worried everyone, but Lord Hardwood's driver chloroformed me and locked me in the boot of his car!"

Another car pulled up just then, coming from the other direction -- the police!

It was everyone else's turn to stare wide-eyed at Bradley as he told them all his story. He flushed with pride when Lord Grantham praised him for his escape, but it was strange how apologetic the man seemed, as if he had anything to do with the actions of another man's driver! When Bradley finished, the police asked him to come along with them, to show where he'd left the driver and the car. His Lordship insisted on coming along as well. It was quick work, at least: it wasn't far, and the man was still out cold. Even Bradley showing them where the car was didn't take much time. The police then took him and His Lordship to Bradley's home, where Lord Grantham then apologised to Bradley's parents.

Bradley kept pinching himself, certain that he must be dreaming.

~ * * * ~  
"It is a shame to end this so soon," Hardwood was saying when Thomas came to, "but as much as I would love to have more fun with you tomorrow, I really can't pass this opportunity up."

Thomas groggily took in the fact that, while he was still dressed, his hands were tied again, as were his feet, with leather from riding tack. _Well, there's plenty of that in a stable._ The thought almost made him giggle around the cloth gag in his mouth. _At least it's not a bridle ...._

"It's the perfect scenario!" Hardwood went on. "I don't like leaving witnesses behind, and I doubt anyone would question this as a suicide. I'll just say that I lost track of you in the woods, and that you must have then come here."

... Did he say suicide? _Is he talking about_ me?

Thomas was starting to regain his full senses now -- just in time to see Hardwood holding a noose and putting it around the under-butler's neck. Thomas began to thrash around, screaming as much as he could around the gag.

"Now, now, none of that," Hardwood warned, tightening the noose. He picked Thomas up and set him on his feet, then pulled the rope (which apparently had been slung over a beam) taut enough that Thomas was getting half-strangled already, and tied it to a hook on the wall. He gave Thomas a chilling smile as he glanced him over, brushing him clean of straw. "I've always wanted to be inside someone while they die ...."

~ * * * ~  
Jimmy had noticed Isis milling about as everyone prepared to leave, and asked His Lordship's permission to bring her along, thinking, as she seemed to like Bradley, that she might get excited if she caught the scent of the boy, whom she seemed to count as a playmate. She was healed enough that Lord Grantham had (admittedly reluctantly) agreed.

She was whining and tugging hard on the lead now -- towards the stables.

"Isis, no! No horses!" Jimmy reprimanded, trying to pull her back.

"Maybe this Bradley is in the stable?" the duke, who had tagged along with Jimmy since he didn't know the area well, suggested.

"It's already been checked, I think -- I saw one of the grooms out here looking with us."

"That doesn't mean the boy's not there, only that they didn't _find_ him."

The duke had a point. Still, they didn't go quite directly there, but rather searched the woods for as long as they could before reaching an area across from the back end of the stable, then came over to that entrance. As they came around the corner, they heard a deep voice saying, "I've always wanted to be inside someone while they die ...."

Jimmy spotted Thomas standing in one of the stalls -- with Hardwood. As his brain tried to process what was happening, Isis slipped free of Jimmy's grasp. Jimmy didn't care; he followed a beat after, but to save Thomas, not stop the dog. Isis didn't attack, just barked shrilly as Hardwood kicked at her, Isis dodging his strikes.

"Get her under control!" Hardwood snapped at him, pulling on a rope. One end of the rope was tied to the wall.

The other end eventually led to Thomas, who was now dangling red-faced above the ground.

Jimmy almost ran for Thomas, but realised that pulling him down would just make things worse, so he grabbed the rope and tried to pull it from Hardwood's grasp. Hardwood fought against him. The duke brained the man from behind with a shovel, and Hardwood let go, though he didn't fall, just stumbled about. The duke stood ready to strike the man again, if necessary, and Isis was still barking.

Jimmy pulled the knot free of the hook and lowered Thomas so that his feet were solidly on the ground. Thomas swayed where he stood, and Jimmy caught him before he could fall, lowering him gently to the hay. He quickly loosened the noose -- but nothing happened. Thomas wasn't breathing.

Jimmy tapped his face, calling his name, with no response. Icy dread coursed through him. Thomas couldn't be dead, he just _couldn't_ be. Never mind that, not too long ago, he would have been glad to have the man out of his life: now that very same possibility was simply unthinkable. However inexplicable his change of heart was, it _was_ changed, and now Jimmy literally couldn't imagine a world without Thomas in it. Free of the wall of anger and prejudices that Jimmy had between them, hiding the view, Jimmy had found the best friend he'd ever had -- he couldn't lose him so soon! There had to be a way to fix this!

And then Jimmy remembered something he'd been taught in the war by a man who'd thought it might come in handy for everyone in his unit to know it. Jimmy had thought it a bit ridiculous at the time, but he'd heard stories of it working, and was desperate now. Pinching the under-butler's nose and laying his mouth over his friends, he breathed into him, again and again, mind on nothing but how much he wanted to hear Thomas speak again.

After several tries, when Jimmy pulled away to check his progress, Thomas began to cough. Hands shaking in relief, Jimmy began untying him. As he worked, he heard the clatter of hooves: Hardwood had apparently stolen a horse.

Jimmy saw the duke hurriedly free and mount another steed, brandishing the shovel still. "Take care of Thomas, Jimmy!"

"I will!" Jimmy promised, turning his attention back to freeing Thomas. When that task was finished, Jimmy pulled his friend close; a trembling Thomas responded by clinging to him like a drowning man, sobbing into his shirt. "It's okay, Thomas. I've got you. You're safe," Jimmy promised, whispering into his hair, vaguely noting the wet heat rolling down his own cheek and the tightness in his own throat. "Are you all right? A-aside from your throat, I mean -- did he hurt you?" He pulled back some, just to look the man over for damage. Thomas didn't meet his eyes or speak, only shaking his head.

Jimmy drew Thomas back into a hug, stroking his back; the under-butler's sobs calmed, save for a cough now and then. Isis sat beside Thomas, giving him a lick before lying down. Jimmy allowed himself a moment to just regroup and focus on the fact that Thomas was alive, and his relief over that fact.

"Can you stand?" Jimmy finally asked.

"Yeah," Thomas replied, but even with Jimmy helping him up, he swooned a bit. "Sorry -- bit dizzy. He hit me in the back of the head."

And so now Jimmy had a whole new worry, but since Thomas was already standing, he figured it was best to just get him to the house and take a better look there. They came in through the back entrance: Jimmy brought Thomas into the sitting room, and had case of déjà vu. Mrs Patmore, hearing them come in, said she would get them some tea.

"And an ice pack!" Jimmy called after her.

Thomas had a bit of a lump, but it wasn't bleeding. Jimmy asked him questions like how many fingers he was holding up, what year it was, and who the Prime Minister was.

"I'm _fine_ ," Thomas finally insisted, a little acerbically -- and not just because his throat was sore; he seemed fed up with all the questions.

"S-sorry," Jimmy said sheepishly.

Thomas sighed and laid a hand on Jimmy's squeezing. " _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't be taking things out on you -- especially since you saved m'life. Thank you."

Mrs Patmore arrived then, and Jimmy thought maybe he detected a slight pause, like she's noted the under-butler's hand on his before Thomas pulled it away. He also thought he detected a slight upwards curl at each corner of her mouth. "I'll be on the kitchen if you need me." And she left.

Thomas gasped and tried to stand, but swayed on his feet, promptly falling back into the chair. "He's got Bradley! God, how could I have forgotten that?" He tried to stand again.

"Maybe because you've been struck on the head?" Jimmy pointed out, pinning Thomas down even as he stood himself. "Did Hardwood say where he was _keeping_ Bradley?" He struggled to keep calm himself.

Looking white as a sheet, Thomas shook his head, then grimaced, holding the back of his noggin. Isis, sitting beside him, whined as if feeling his pain. "Only that his driver did the actual abducting, when Bradley was supposed to leave for home. It's been hours -- they could be anywhere!"

"Let's not give up hope until we know for sure there's none at all to be had," Jimmy, handing over the ice pack.

"Cheers," Thomas told him with a wry smile, putting it gingerly against his skull.

"I'll go phone the police," Jimmy said, wondering how much good it would do when everyone was already looking for the boy. Despite his own words to comfort Thomas, his relief at the under-butler's safety was chased away now by fear that the hall boy might already be dead ....

He ducked his head into the kitchen first, asking her to keep an eye on Thomas for a moment. It probably wasn't necessary, but he didn't want Thomas passing out from his head injury and falling or something. When Jimmy went to picked the phone in Carson's office, he found the line was already in use.

" _And you must be careful_ not _to tip off Hardwood," Lord Grantham was saying into it._

"You _know_ already?" Jimmy said, speaking before thinking, out of surprise.

" _Who is this?_ " Lord Grantham growled over the line.

"I-it's James, milord -- I was just about to phone the police and let them know about Hardwood abducting Bradley!"

" _How the devil did_ you _know about that?_ " His Lordship demanded.

"The duke and I found Hardwood trying to hang Mr Barrow in the stable, milord."

" _My God!_ " Grantham and Bates chorused, bates apparently close enough to hear and be heard.

" _Officer Graves, I need to confer with my footman now, You know what to do. James, come up to the library._ " And he hung up.

Jimmy hurried upstairs.

"Is Thomas all right, James?" Bates asked the moment Jimmy stepped into the room. Jimmy almost smiled at the concern, remembering that Bates had once hated Thomas as much or more than Jimmy!

"I think he will be, but his throat's pretty bruised, and Hardwood hit him in the back of the head -- he might have a concussion."

"I pray not! But what happened with Hardwood and the duke?" Lord Grantham asked.

"Hardwood took off on a horse, and the duke followed on another. Beyond that, I've no idea."

His Lordship sighed. "Well, with any luck, the duke will catch him. Meanwhile, there's no need to keep up pretenses if he's already fled -- go ahead and signal for everyone to return to the house, Bates."

"But what about Bradley? Er, begging your pardon, milord," Jimmy hastily added.

"Oh, we found him! He's safe at home, now," His Lordship revealed.

Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief.

"What shall we tell everyone?" Bates asked.

"The truth: that Bradley is safe, Hardwood is under suspicion of conspiring to kidnap Bradley, and now Hardwood is on the run after attacking another member of my staff. And if anyone wants to try to find him now, the help would be most welcome!"

~ * * * ~  
Mrs Patmore was confused and even a bit irritated by Jimmy's request -- surely Thomas didn't need a babysitter, and with all the staff outside, she had plenty she could be doing to make up the slack. Not to mention how she had been _trying_ to give the pair some time alone! (What they did with it was none of her business -- she just appreciated how peaceful things had been with Jimmy being nice to Thomas now.) But Jimmy looked so agitated himself, she decided not to argue and just allow herself the rest while keeping Thomas company. Her irritation vanished when she walked into the sitting room and found Thomas with one hand over his eyes, the other holding the icepack to the back of his head.

"Tho--" she was never going to get used to thinking of him as anything but Thomas, was she? "Mr Barrow? I thought the ice pack was for your leg?" Hadn't he come in early because it was hurting? Truth be told, they should have left him to man the servants hall, or keep Mr Bates company. "What's happened?"

Thomas raised his head. Now that she could get a good look at him, she could see he'd been crying. For a moment, she thought it was just that he was worried for Bradley.

Then she saw the ring around his neck.

"Oh!" She quickly covered her mouth and swallowed down the tears that were forming. Then she breathed deep and straightened up as though nothing was wrong. Proud Thomas wouldn't thank her for her pity, she knew.

"I, ah ... had a bit of a clash with Lord Hardwood," Thomas croaked, eyes and voice both hollow, and smile only half-mast.

She had wondered if the wound was self-inflicted or done by another, but then told herself it didn't matter; either would have been horrible. Now she wondered, just for a moment, if maybe Thomas had tried to steal another kiss (as she much suspected he had done once with Jimmy, though she'd never confirmed it), but quickly squelched that thought too. Whether he had or hadn't, she was reasonably sure he hadn't done something worth being _executed_ for, and deserved her sympathy.

"Here, let me fix you a cuppa, seeing as your hand's a bit full with that pack," she said, and went to work pouring the tea and mixing in a fair bit of honey. "There. See how that is," she said, sliding the table and tray closer to him.

Hand shaking, he took a sip and nodded, starting to thank her.

"Ah-ah, no talkin' now, mister. You rest that throat." There would be plenty for him to say later, she suspected. For now, she shared a bit of kitchen gossip, trying to keep her eyes elsewhere in the room and grant him that much privacy at least. The longer she spent with him, the more she suspected that there was even more to the situation than a noose. Much more -- and much worse. She'd had a friend, when she was a young lass, who had been raped, and the air around Thomas now reminded her of that friend, who had never been quite the same after ....

~ * * * ~  
"Could they have caught him already?" Robert wondered as the car drew near Downton.

Off near the treeline, a bunch of people were gathered about (although all he could see of them at first in the growing dark was their lanterns and torches). Branson drove the car through the grass, getting close. Matthew spotted them and hurried their way, accompanied by the duke.

"Robert! Hardwood has been found!" Matthew looked a little sick. "It's not pretty, I'm afraid. It seems that he ... well, fell off his horse and was trampled. The duke found him."

Robert felt a rather grim surge of satisfaction at this news. There would be no trial, no chance for the man to drag Barrow or Robert's family through the mud (aside from the notoriety of the story of Bradley's abduction, and possibly of the attack on Barrow, anyway) -- and no chance of the man dodging punishment.

"How dreadful! Please, come back to the house with us, and we'll get you a stiff drink," Robert said, wanting to get their stories straight before the police arrived.

At least the police had been stalled by needing to take the driver in. That, and Robert had suggested that it would make more sense for them to send some men to protect Bradley's family (and the Crawley ladies, who had come there to support Bradley's mother), in case Hardwood came that way; after all, there was already a horde of people looking for the man at Downton. He would have to call them very soon, to let them know about Hardwood, ass too much of a delay would look suspicious, but they would have a bit of time at least, even after he called.

"I would like to check on Mr Barrow, too, if that would be all right?" the duke suggested.

Of course it was, given that Barrow was one of the people they needed to get the stories straight with as well.

In the end, only Robert, Barrow, the duke, Jimmy, and Carson were included in the discussion in the sitting room. Well, and Isis. Robert was glad to see here there -- not just because she steadied his own nerves, but because obviously Barrow needed her, the man's fingers clenched tight in the ruff of her neck.

"We obviously don't have time for you to go all into it now, Barrow, but is there anything we need to know first?"

Barrow thought for a moment. "There's a suitcase in the dressing room that needs to be disposed of, if we want to keep the story of his depravity and what he did to m--well, to a minimum. He only brought two; the one you want gone is the locked one."

"And the sheets?" the duke asked.

Robert didn't want to entertain why the duke had thought to ask that.

"He brought his own -- they're in the case too, and I re-made the bed. He ... he may or may not have left a pistol in the nightstand." Barrow ran a trembling hand through his hair.

Robert's imagination skirted the possibilities of what had happened to the poor man before him, and he felt sick. Carson wasn't looking so well either, nor did James.

"Carson, can you see to that?" Robert asked. Carson looked relieved at the excuse to leave (the butler would probably pretend it was just another case and not dwell at all on what was in it). Robert would have let James go as well if they didn't still need him for working out what to say to the police. Robert only hoped that this reminder of Barrow's inclinations wouldn't stir up bad feelings between the footman and the under-butler again. Even Robert had noticed them getting along much better of late!

And then Robert saw James lay a comforting hand on Barrow's shoulder, and saw Barrow visibly calm at the touch, and a whole new set of worries tried to worm their way into Robert's mind.

"All right, then," the duke said, starting to pace. (Robert almost thanked him for the distraction.) "The only issues that need be addressed are the kidnapping and Hardwood's last assault on Barrow -- with him dead, it seems pointless to mention anything else. The less said, the better. The kidnapping is simple: we don't know anything of why he did it. No one knew Bradley had been abducted until Bradley himself told Robert so. We do not presume to guess why he did it. But as to why he attacked Thomas ...."

Everyone was silent, thinking.

"I'll say I lost track of him in the woods," Barrow began slowly. "When I caught sight of him again, I saw him entering the stable. Followed quick as I could, but it's hard with this leg. I didn't want to embarrass him by calling him out on retreating into the warmth, since he knew damn well the stable had already been searched, so I didn't shout for him. As I came in, I asked him if there was something I could help him with, and he seemed quite startled. He asked me to help him with a horse, saying it would allow him to search farther out. I pointed out that he didn't know the area, and it was getting dark -- too dangerous for riding. He insisted; I refused, firmly believing His Lordship would not approve of me filling that particular request."

"A point which I would happily confirm," Robert agreed. It was odd, but I was easier to lie, he reckoned, when what one said was _hypothetically_ true ....

Barrow nodded, continuing. "As I turned to leave, Lord Hardwood struck me in the back of the head. I woke up to him trying to hang me, seeming crazed, saying something about how he couldn't have a witness and that he thought maybe I'd heard things I shouldn't have and was trying to stop him, but people shouldn't have any problem believing I'd hung myself. That's when James and His Grace found us and saved me."

The duke and Jimmy then recounted their part of what happened, apparently not needing to corroborate or change anything.

Robert found himself nodding; if he hadn't known there was more to it, he could easily have believed this version of events -- wished this was the only version he knew. But then, Barrow surely wished he hadn't gone through _any_ version, so Robert hadn't any room to complain.

"There is one more thing to consider before we lock ourselves into this story," the duke started.

Robert had never wished more that he could tell someone to just shut their gobs. They had a good story for the police; he didn't want to dwell on the subject a moment longer.

The duke turned to the under-butler. "Barrow ... are you injured in _any_ way that would require us to bring a doctor into this conspiracy, lest he cast doubt on our story?"

Barrow seemed to shrink into himself. "Nothing that _needs_ attention, but if I'm to take me undershirt off for an examination because of this--" he pointed to the red ring around his neck "--then there are a few things a doctor might wonder about. Scratches. Cuts. Bruises. Burns. Puncture marks."

Robert saw the footman's hand tighten on the under-butler's shoulder and couldn't blame him for doing so, telling himself that James was probably feeling a bit fainthearted and in need of support; Robert decided then that he needed to sit down himself.

Poor bastard, he thought as he studied Barrow. While the man had always been rather reserved and detached, it was different, now. He'd lost his arrogance a while ago, true, by degrees but mostly since almost being thrown out on his ear. Robert had even admired how Barrow had come out of the fire a better man. But now he was like a dog waiting to be struck, with all confidence and pride, even a healthy amount, gone. Robert had rather liked the man in-between, and wondered if there was anything at all they could help Barrow to get that man back. Was this kind of damage reversible?

Well, whether it was or wasn't, Robert was determined that Barrow would never want for a home or security again. It was the least he could do, after what Barrow had done in stopping the serial killer and saving Isis. And, for that matter, for Robert's part in Barrow's current woes: bringing that monster Hardwood into Downton. Robert had known Hardwood had had something of a mean-streak in their school days, but the man was good in business, and Robert never would have imagined that the charmer was so sick in his mind. He'd seemed relatively normal! Now Robert wondered how well he knew the _rest_ of his circle, what other snakes might be hiding -- like the one Hardwood claimed was helping him. Maybe that was a ruse, and there wasn't really anyone? He prayed so.

Meanwhile, perhaps the duke wasn't such a villain as Robert had once believed. The man seemed quite relieved that there was nothing worse listed amongst the things Barrow had suffered (although, as far as Robert was concerned, that lost was still more than bad enough). Robert almost let himself wonder why the duke would care so much about a servant tat wasn't even his, but quickly decided that the duke was probably making reparations for how he'd treated Mary, and not that he had formed any sort of illicit attachment to Barrow when Barrow had acted as his valet.

"All right, then," His Grace said, "it sounds like those injuries could be seen as just the sorts of things that a man might otherwise incur if his interests in the boudoir were ... _frisky_. Things that he could just as easily gain if he were to lie with a woman -- Hardwood needn't be recounted as the source. If you tell the doctor as much, I'm betting he wouldn't push the issue."

"Probably not," Barrow agreed halfheartedly. Robert hoped he was right.

~ * * * ~  
They needn't have worried.

They brought Clarkson in to see Thomas, and the man never asked Thomas to remove his clothes, just unbutton his top shirt so he could get a better look at his neck and have a bit better access for the stethoscope. He declared that Thomas should avoid talking for a few days for the sake of his throat -- save for a few words every two hours or so for the next 24 hours, to make sure he was still coherent after what appeared to be a mild concussion.

Thomas supposed he shouldn't be surprised when Jimmy volunteered for the task of keeping an eye on Thomas, since Jimmy had already spent so much time with him while he was recovering from the mugging and then the gunshot wound, but it touched him all the same.

"We never did finish that book I was reading to you before; this seems as good of time as any," Jimmy reminded him in front of His Lordship and the others, by way of excuse.

The police then came and questioned them all, one by one. Relievedly, the police seemed satisfied by their answers. Surprisingly (or perhaps not?), Philip returned after his own interrogation, a deck of cards in hand.

They passed an hour or so that way, with frequent interruptions by well-wishers. Thomas appreciated that people cared so much (at _all_ , really), but he was glad for his injured throat if only it meant that he didn't have to answer questions and no one stayed long. It helped that Jimmy was able to answer for him about not being badly injured but also not being able to speak. The awkwardness of them all -- not knowing what to say or whether or not to even look -- was painful. Thomas hated wondering, with each new set of eyes staring his way, how much they knew or guessed.

Bates was the only one who was bearable, stopping in just long enough to bring him a pack of cigarettes, then _tell_ Thomas that he was glad he was safe (instead of asking how he was, when it was obvious he was terrible), and that, if there was anything Thomas needed, to just let him know. Thomas had a sense that it didn't really _matter_ what Bates knew of the situation: Thomas had been hurt but was going to live, and that was that. Particulars were unnecessary.

Finally, everyone had been to see Thomas, and so there were no more interruptions.

"Thank you both," Thomas croaked when the clock told them that two hours had finally passed. "For saving me, I mean."

"I do hope this means we can be friends again, Thomas," Philip replied.

Thomas flicked Jimmy a fond look, wondering if the lad was, like him, suddenly remembering a conversation not too long gone. The smirk Jimmy gave him back said the lad did. "Yes. Yes, I think it does," Thomas agreed, smiling softly.

~ * * * ~  
Jimmy's smile faltered a little at the under-butler's declaration to the duke, but he wasn't sure why.

The thing was, Jimmy liked the duke, really, and it wasn't as though Jimmy was going to change teams for Thomas, so there was nothing to feel jealous or possessive about -- he had no claim to more than friendship with Thomas. Maybe it was just because the duke himself had suggested that he and Thomas hadn't been any good together, and so Jimmy had come to the conclusion that it was probably better if the duke and Thomas stayed apart.

_Even though Thomas has, by everyone's accounts, changed since, and maybe the duke has too?_

Another half-hour or so passed before the duke finally announced that he'd better get to sleep, as his wife and her cousin wanted an early start. "Can you help me get my things together?" he asked Jimmy.

Oh that was right -- Jimmy was still acting as his valet! Jimmy sort of resented being separated from Thomas, but then thought maybe Thomas would appreciate some time alone. "Will you be all right?" he asked, just in case.

"Well enough," Thomas promised with a wan smile. "Could use a nap."

"Take care of yourself, Thomas," the duke said quietly, laying a hand on the under-butler's shoulder.

It gave Jimmy a perverse sort of pleasure to note that Thomas seemed to stiffen a bit under the touch, his smile growing more strained. Jimmy was immediately sickened by his own reaction, seeing as Thomas was only reacting that way because he'd been through such a horrible ordeal and was suffering! And then Thomas seemed to relax when Jimmy did the same as the duke had done, and Jimmy had to fight of a probably inappropriate surge of satisfaction at _that_.

Jimmy asked Mrs Patmore and Mrs Hughes to keep an ear out for Mr Barrow, then followed the duke upstairs. He helped the man undress and pack in fairly companionable silence.

"I'm not trying to get him back, you know," the duke said finally. "Not _that_ way, I mean. I'm just ... I was sorry how things went down between us. And it seems to me he's a person worth having on one's life."

Jimmy wasn't sure why the duke saw fit to tell him any of that, but he couldn't disagree. "It took me a while to learn that, I'm afraid, but ... yeah. He is."

The duke smiled, but his eyes held regret. "I wish you both the best. And I'd like to keep in touch, if that's okay?"

Jimmy had a feeling the duke was wishing them well together, but decided it would be to awkward to ask what he meant or correct him. And really, what difference did it make (save maybe to keep the duke from carrying Thomas off to his own household)?

"Of course, Your Grace," Jimmy replied. He wouldn't have known how to say no, really, but he found the notion agreeable in any case, and was glad to note the duke seemed to brighten with the yes. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, no, you just look after Thomas now. But since Carson gave you have the morning off to do that, I'll say goodbye now." And the duke held out his hand.

Blimey! Shaking hands with a duke! Jimmy thought to himself as he did just that. _Of course, Thomas has done a lot more ...._ He hoped he hadn't started blushing as he pushed such imagining from his mind. Accepting that behavior and _thinking_ about it were two different things.

After they said goodbye, Jimmy left the room at a leisurely pace, but found himself walking rather hurriedly as soon as he was sure there was no one about to see him, rushing down the servants' stair at breakneck speed. He went just as fast back upstairs to his room, to change for the night and grab a first aid kit from the bathroom, then down again.

Thomas was asleep with Isis in his lap when Jimmy came back to the sitting room, and Jimmy found himself charmed by the picture, even though it was hardly the first time he'd seen it. The under-butler started awake as Jimmy tried to get a cot set up next to the chair.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you yet," Jimmy said quietly. "Do you want a cot yourself, or do you prefer the armchair?"

Thomas groggily sat up and contemplated the cot.

A thought occurred to Jimmy. "Oh! Um, if you'd rather, I can just kip out in the hallway."

Thomas looked confused. Jimmy hoped it wasn't because of the concussion.

"Why would I?" Thomas asked, voice still raw. "It's not like it's the first time you've had to keep an eye on me overnight -- made a bad habit of this, haven't I?" He smiled ruefully, then seemed to think of something himself. "Unless _you'd_ rather ...?"

"Oh, no, i-it's fine -- I just thought ... well, after what happened, maybe you'd want to be alone ...."

"No!" Thomas grimaced, but Jimmy wasn't sure if it was because his throat hurt or he was embarrassed at his own outburst. "If I hadn't already been alone all that time with Hardwood, he never would have had the chance to do anything to me. Besides ... there's nothing to be afraid of now," he whispered; it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "And I feel ... _safe_ with you. You and Isis, here," he clarified, scratching her behind the ear.

"Well, that's settled, at least -- here I'll stay!" Jimmy said, trying to lighten the mood. "So, shall I fetch another cot? Just nod or shake your head -- you've done enough talking for the next couple of hours!"

Thomas chuckled, shaking his head.

"Oh, and I brought this," Jimmy said, holding up the first-aid kit. "Since you couldn't have Dr Clarkson do anything for whatever ... well, you know," he finished vaguely.

Thomas hesitated, then shook his head again, clearly meaning he wanted Jimmy to do no such thing.

"Thomas, please. You ought to know as a medic that even a small cut can become a big problem."

The under-butler's eyes began to sparkle with unshed tears, lips tightening as he looked away.

Jimmy drew a chair close beside the under-butler's, laying his hands gently on the man's arm. "Thomas, I won't think any less of you for it, if that's what you're afraid of. The duke _told_ me what a dangerous man Hardwood was, and I know you took that abuse to protect Bradley."

"Not all of it. I didn't try to stop him _before_ I knew about Bradley," Thomas whispered, tears falling now. "I just ... let him have his way."

"Did you? What was the alternative? I don't imagine he would take no for an answer! But for the record, even if you'd _wanted_ to do any of that sort of thing, I wouldn't think of you any less for that, either. You weren't the one _threatening_ anybody else. You did the best you could in an impossible situation, you came out alive, and because you held out till the very end, you bought time for Bradley, too. You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of."

He gripped the under-butler's arm tight with one hand, using the other to cup his friend's cheek, wiping a tear away. Thomas closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

It was funny ... a bit over a year ago, Jimmy had been repulsed by how Thomas kept touching him, but now, _Jimmy_ was the one doing the touching -- and it made him strangely happy how Thomas responded. He understood now that, when Thomas had done it before, it wasn't out of lechery, so much as testing the waters in the only way he could think to in a world where he didn't dare speak his feelings aloud.

And now it occurred to Jimmy that he might be saying something misleading in that silent language, and drew his hands away.

He coughed. "So, come on then. Let me clean up those wounds, before you end up getting an infection!"

"Well, I did get _most_ of them cleaned on me own," Thomas grumbled, standing up. Taking both his shirts off, he sat backwards on a wooden chair, with his back to the fire.

Jimmy pressed a hand tight to his lips to silence a cry of dismay.

The wounds weren't made too deep (obviously so that they would clot quickly and not stain anything), but there were quite a few -- and some were hard, jagged scratches rather than clean cuts. There were blisters, as well, some burst and raw (probably made by a candle), and welts, suggesting a riding crop was used. They weren't just on his back, either, but on his shoulders and arms; Jimmy expected they were in the front, as well -- and probably on his legs. And more tender regions? Jimmy couldn't bear to think on it. He hoped Thomas was telling the truth about having gotten the rest cleaned, because he didn't think either of them could handle Jimmy tending to certain other areas.

Jimmy was as gentle as he could manage with the iodine; Thomas hissed and jerked now and then, but was mostly quiet and still. Once Jimmy finished that task, he took up a jar of salve he found in the kit and, putting a small amount on his fingers, began to gently smooth some into the worst of the wounds. Thomas moaned and sighed faintly now and then, head drooping more and more onto his arms.

Thomas was already half-asleep by the time Jimmy was done and got them both settled. The peace didn't last long, though; a short while before the two-hour alarm went off, Thomas woke with a cry. Jimmy found him gasping, clutching his throat, with Isis whining, probably unsure whether to lick him to death or not. Jimmy scrambled out of bed and sat at the head of the cot, beside the armchair.

"It's okay, Thomas! It's okay, you're safe now. It was just a bad dream," Jimmy soothed, one hand cupping the man's face and the other holding his hand.

The under-butler's breathing immediately began to calm, and Thomas slipped a hand over the one against his cheek, as if begging Jimmy to not let go. Jimmy stroked that cheek with his thumb, in a promise to stay.

Thomas began to cry, though it was clear he was trying not to. Jimmy sat on the arm of the chair and crushed a shaking Thomas to him, rubbing his back, crying silently himself into the man's dark hair.

"Will I ever stop seeing a gun in my face when I close my eyes?" Thomas whispered.

Jimmy drew back just a little, perplexed. "You mean from the man from the woods?

"I _have_ dreamt of him, but ... well, now it's Hardwood." At first, Jimmy thought it was just a melding of horrors in the under-butler's head, but then Thomas jerked his head up and said, "Oh! Someone should make sure that pistol is empty now, if Carson didn't think to do so himself."

And then Jimmy remembered Thomas saying something about how there might be a pistol in the nightstand.

"He ... did Hardwood _threaten_ you with it??"

Thomas let out a chilling giggle. "You mean to get me to do what he wanted? No, not at all. He _used_ it on me, as part of his game -- he put one bullet in it, spun the cylinder, and fired. He did it last night, and again this afternoon. Heh, and to think I'd thought he was bad when I knew him _before_ I came to Downton ...."

" _Before_?" Jimmy asked, horrified anew by both new revelations. "I thought ..."

"That this weekend was the first time I'd met him? No. I met him when I was working at a ... club, not long after I'd left home."

Jimmy wasn't naïve, and he remembered how the duke knew Hardwood: the club was probably a secret brothel. So the man had abused Thomas when Thomas was young and probably scared and doing what he had to in order to get by. _No wonder you "let him have his way", Thomas -- he had you trained like Pavlov's dog,_ and _he was a psychopath!_

"Well, thank God that bullet stayed in its chamber, and it's that monster who's dead, not you," Jimmy said firmly, drawing Thomas close again, tightening his arms around him and resting his cheek against the dark mane.

Thomas had taught him what it meant to have someone care about you unconditionally; no matter what Jimmy had done to Thomas before their reconciliation, how ill he had treated the man, according to Alfred, Thomas had never let anyone speak ill of Jimmy, despite knowing that Jimmy would never love him _that way_ , even _hated_ him. By that example, Jimmy had also learned better to care about someone other than himself. He felt he had to make it clear to Thomas now that he didn't think any less of the man, wouldn't hold him at arm's length or look at him in disgust just because of his history. Jimmy's effort seemed to pay off, too: he could feel Thomas relax, practically melting in his embrace.

Soon, Thomas was asleep, but Jimmy stayed there a little while longer, mentally dancing around his current feelings towards the man and how those feelings had changed over recent months, not quite able to quantify them. His own parents had been pretty stand-offish when it came to physical affection. Was it normal to want this kind of contact, a close embrace, with someone who wasn't one's lover? Jimmy thought maybe their current position, which was undeniable evidence that Thomas was _alive_ , made Jimmy feel as much at peace as his touch seemed to do for Thomas. Was it ... _odd_ for Jimmy to feel that way? Or understandable, considering he'd almost lost what he considered to be his best friend?

Was it normal to have derived some sense of pleasure as he'd rubbed the salve into the under-butler's back?

Was it normal to appreciate how the light had played on the man's muscles?

Surely it was -- hadn't the Greeks made many statues celebrating the beauty of the physical body? An appreciation of that beauty wasn't necessarily sexually driven ... right?

 _So what if it is? Hadn't you decided that there was nothing wrong with homosexuality?_ It was like Clarette was in his head!

_Well, just because I like gingers and don't think they're soulless doesn't mean I want to become one!_

_If you're not already one, yes. But things change. What if one day you woke up with some red hairs? Wouldn't you be okay with it? Or would you feel like you were no longer you, and drag your heels about the change, maybe try to colour your hair the way it was? What if, now that you've accepted that it's not wrong to be homosexual, someday you woke up and realised that you, in fact, found a man attractive? A man you perhaps care for as you have never yet felt towards a woman, and who cares for you as no gal you've ever known? There is more than black and white, homosexual and not. You don't _have_ to be lavender to be accepting of those who are, but you don't have to _ not _be, just for the sake of not being so. Only refuse to be that way if not being that way is unequivocally how you_ want _to be. Don't ignore or rewrite the reality of how you feel for no good reason,_ either _way. And don't feel like you have to decide right now who you are, nor feel like you can't_ ever _change your mind about how you feel._

Head spinning, Jimmy thought he would never fall asleep, even after he lied down, but the events of the day caught up to him, knocking him out quickly. Each time the alarm went off, in its bi-hourly intervals, he and Thomas remained awake only long enough to check the under-butler's coherency (and to be honest, Jimmy was so groggy himself, he wasn't all that sure if Thomas was doing well in that regard or not).

~ * * * ~  
The next morning, Thomas wasn't sure how much really happened between him and Jimmy, and how much he'd maybe dreamed. He decided it was safer not to mention any of it. In fact, he didn't mention any of the ordeal at all, to anyone, and thankfully no one else mentioned it, save for as a matter of scheduling. Lord Grantham's guests all seemed sympathetic to the upheaval of the house, and so left early, skipping the last day of shooting for the season. That left Jimmy to stay holed up in the sitting room with Thomas, since he hadn't gotten a great night's sleep. Bradley was told to stay at his parent's house for a few more days, the same length of time of which Thomas was told to stay in bed. Jimmy was allowed to move his bed into the under-butler's room for that time, under the excuse that Thomas was plagued with nightmares, and it was better to have someone on-hand to immediately see to him, (and maybe even wake him before he started screaming) rather than have him wake the whole attic.

When Bradley returned, Thomas managed to keep himself together as he hugged the boy in greeting, and not crush the kid in relief. Bradley was told about the under-butler's near-strangulation, but nothing else. The only ones who were let in on the truth after the fact were the Bateses, and only because, having come to be as close to Thomas as they had, they could tell something else had happened and were worried, Anna pressing for the truth.

Not that Thomas didn't have moments of panic, especially when the press of people came too close, but those who knew, who were also the ones he dealt most often with, gave him space and, with a bit of time, managed to treat him fairly normally, instead of looking at him with pity in their eyes all the time. Normalcy helped, and he was eager to get back to a more regular routine, as being off-duty or on "light duty" only served to remind him that there was a reason he _wasn't_ on regular duty, and gave him too much time to dwell on that reason.

Jimmy also helped, but that was a double-edged sword. Jimmy's presence, especially his touch, seemed to have a calming effect on Thomas, but the other side of that was how much more Thomas struggled to remember that Jimmy was just a friend, and would only ever be so. The more Jimmy touched him, the more he wanted Jimmy's touch.

Finally, the day came when Thomas was expected back to work -- at his own insistence. (Lord Grantham had actually suggested Thomas could take a holiday, but Thomas feared he wouldn't be able to escape the memories of his ordeal at all then, with no work to both distract him and remind him of better days.) Carson had a personal matter to attend to, and so it was up to Thomas to see that the family was well taken care of that morning -- including Her Ladyship, who usually broke her fast in bed, and even the Dowager, who was joining the ladies for a visit elsewhere and decided to join them early.

He couldn't get his bow-tie on.

Once he got it tied, the feel of it against his throat reminded him of the noose, and he started to panic. He undid it quickly, steeled himself, and tried again -- same result. He threw the tie across the room and leaned against the dresser, head in his hands. What was he going to do? He couldn't serve without the tie -- he'd be undressed! Had Hardwood essentially taken his life from him after all, through this one small thing? Would he lose his job -- and not be able to get a job somewhere else -- over stupid _tie_?

He sniffled, tears of frustration burning down his face.

There was a knock at his door. "Thomas? You still there?" Jimmy.

Thomas hesitated, then quickly opened his door and ushered Jimmy inside. "I don't know what to do!" he whispered, pacing. "I can't go down!"

"What? Why not?"

Thomas picked up his bowtie and shook it. "I can't put a bloody tie on! What am I gonna do?"

"Hey!" Jimmy said, taking Thomas by the shoulders. "Calm down."

Thomas did feel himself calm significantly, as it always did when Jimmy touched him lately. He didn't quite understand _why_ contact with Jimmy -- and _only_ with Jimmy -- had such a positive effect, when physical contact with everyone else made him at least a little uncomfortable these days. Whatever the reason, though, having Jimmy as a balm was better than nothing at all, so he wasn't about to complain about or question it, only pray Jimmy didn't find it too troublesome. Maybe Thomas could get through breakfast with Jimmy there.

"Just leave it untied for now, then tie loosely when our breakfast is over," Jimmy suggested. "Don't tighten it until you really have to. If you start to get overwhelmed, just come get me from door duty, and I can cover for the rest of the meal. And then we'll brainstorm about this when breakfast is over. Let's not worry until we absolutely _have_ to, all right?"

Thomas breathed in and slowly exhaled, then nodded. "Right. Thank you, Jimmy."

Jimmy smiled, and it was hard to stay gloomy.

At least, until Ivy asked at breakfast why Thomas wasn't completely dressed.

"It's not your place to ask such questions," Mrs Patmore admonished.

"Are you sure you're ready to come back, Mr Barrow?" Carson asked lowly.

Thomas appreciated that the man kept his tone concerned and didn't just automatically insist right then that Thomas do up his tie. Thomas knew that the man was going to visit a very ill friend, and didn't want the man to miss the chance of saying goodbye.

'Yes, Mr Carson; I just don't want to push things more than I should with my neck, so figured downstairs I might leave it loose?"

Carson looked like he was going to argue, but finally just nodded.

Thomas avoided looking at Mrs Hughes, reckoning he knew how she was looking at him and not wanting confirmation of her pity -- mostly because he was afraid she might try to talk him and Carson out of this folly. Thomas feared she wouldn't have to try hard -- and if he waited any longer to get back on the horse, it might never happen.

Carson left immediately after his plate was clean. Thomas could afford to be a little leisurely, as breakfast was scheduled to be a bit late, for the Dowager's sake, but didn't allow himself it, afraid that he would lose his nerve and determined to see the morning through. He stopped by a mirror and put his bowtie on -- loosely, like jimmy had suggested. He felt pretty okay, so he headed upstairs to start setting up the buffet with Jimmy. (Since footmen were not needed to serve breakfast, Patmore was showing Alfred something in the kitchen. Thomas was happy to let the boy take the morning to learn without Carson about to tut his disapproval.)

Their task done, Jimmy went to man the front door, waiting for the Dowager's arrival, while Thomas made one last pass of the room. The under-butler heard voices approaching, and hurriedly tightened his bowtie.

And promptly lost the ability to breathe.

Hands trembling, he couldn't seem to loosen the knot. The world swam before him, and he fell to his knees, the sudden pain in his bad leg increasing his panic.

"Thomas? Thomas, are you all right?" He vaguely recognized the voice as belonging to Lady Edith.

"I can't--" he gasped, pulling hard on the tie, just caring about keeping it off his neck now.

"Here, let me," she ordered, kneeling beside him; he let go, and she quickly undid it.

Freed and falling back against the buffet, he took in great gulps or air. "Thank you, milady," he gasped. "I'm sorry -- forgive me!"

Lady Grantham was kneeling beside him too, then, and the dowager standing behind them; his humiliation was almost as stifling as the bowtie.

"Are you all right, Thomas?" Her Ladyship asked, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, hopefully not knowing how much it took out of him to bear the contact.

"I-I will be, milady -- just need to catch my breath, I think."

"Dear boy, there is no point in deluding yourself," the dowager admonished.

"Grandmama!" Lady Edith protested.

"I only mean that it's obvious that, in light of what Lord Hardwood has done, the bowtie is obviously far too constrictive for the poor boy to be expected to wear around such a tender, abused throat. Here, try this," she added, pulling a silk scarf from around Edith's neck.

Thomas was, frankly, too afraid of the woman to protest as she gently fashioned it into a loose cravat, tucking the ends into his vest. He barely felt its presence, and it didn't spark any panic.

"Well! That looks quite handsome!" Her Ladyship declared, clapping her hands in delight.

"I daresay you wear it better than me," Lady Edith weighed in with a wry smile.

"Yes, I think this will be quite a suitable substitute," the dowager decided.

"And if Carson or His Lordship disagrees, they will have to answer to us," Her Ladyship added firmly.

Thomas could hardly believe their kindness -- and willingness to just brush aside tradition for the comfort of a servant (especially one they arguably would do well to be rid of, in light of the potential for scandal that his interactions with Hardwood invited, even without them knowing about the sex). His world was being upheaved again -- this time, in a good way.

"That's a smart look for you, Mr Barrow," Jimmy told him cheerfully when they saw each other later, at tea.

Thomas found himself remembering how to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! This one took longer than I'd hoped but still less time than the first, so how knows when the next will get up. XD At least I have a better idea of what will happen in it -- I ended up writing this one more stream-of-consciousness, and it turned out quite different from what I'd expected ....


	3. Long Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a violent encounter with another ghost from his past, will Thomas wind up on the streets -- or can yet another ghost be his salvation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genres/Themes for this Chapter:** Introspection, Character Study, Reunion, Romance  
>  **Prominent Characters in this Chapter:** Thomas, Jimmy, Lord Grantham, Carson, Jack Courtenay  
>  **Relationships Featured in this Chapter:** Friends: Thomas / Jimmy, Thomas / Lord Grantham. Antagonistic: Thomas / Jack Courtenay. Romantic: Thomas / Declan Baker.  
>  **Length for this Chapter: almost 9850 words**

_April 12, 1922_  
Thomas hadn't told Clarette about what had happened with Hardwood. To the best of his knowledge, no one else had -- why would anyone have thought to? But now she was coming for a visit, and he wasn't sure if he ought to tell her anything, or how much. Part of him figured that being able to tell friends the bad things in your life along with the good was part of what made them friends, but if he'd had his way, _no one_ would know what happened -- not even about the attempted hanging, which everyone _did_ know about. They'd pretty much gone back to treating him like normal, true, but ... he would like to have someone in his life who had only ever seen him _without_ that stain. Then maybe he could see _himself_ again, reflected back at him in their eyes, even pretend he was in a world where it hadn't happened. It was at least partially how he had dealt with Hardwood's abuse the first time around, when he was a teen, knowing that others _didn't_ know and pretending he was still the person they saw when they looked his way.

But wouldn't _not_ telling Clarette be the same as lying to her?

If he _didn't_ tell her, at least she wouldn't have cause to wonder too much about the cravat Thomas now wore instead of a tie, thanks to being hung: Carson and the footmen were all wearing them now, Her Ladyship telling anyone who asked that she had seen it in a magazine and rather liked it, and that was that. To be honest, Thomas was surprised and deeply touched by how everyone, especially Carson, had gone along with it, all for his sake. Not that they hadn't been rather kind to him in the past couple of years, but he didn't think he would ever get used to it.

"You look nervous," Jimmy remarked as they waited for their breakfast, both of them a bit early, as had become their custom. (Thomas wasn't really sure _why_ it had, but as this semi-private time with Jimmy helped him get though the day, he wasn't going to complain.) "Aren't you looking forward to seeing the Waignrights at dinner tonight?"

"I am, I am, it's just ... do I tell Clarette anything about ...?"

"Well, would it help anything if you did?"

"No," Thomas realised. He wouldn't feel any better, and it wouldn't help anyone. All it would do was upset Clarette over something that was over and done with, couldn't be changed -- and probably install the same sort of pity in her eyes that he was getting sick of seeing nearly everywhere else in the house, even from those who only knew a tiny bit of the story.

That weight off his mind, he was able to go about his morning at relative ease, like it was any other day. Well, any other day that they were hosting a luncheon. And that ease only lasted until just after the luncheon itself.

Thomas hadn't been on duty for the luncheon, working on the ledgers instead. But after lunch, Carson had work of his own to do, and apparently one of the men had stayed to talk further, in the library, so the butler asked Thomas to look after His Lordship and the straggler while Jimmy cleared up the dining room (alone, as Alfred was away).

It was a good thing that Thomas wasn't carrying anything as he walked into the library, because he surely would have dropped it upon laying eyes upon their guest.

"L... Lieutenant Courtenay?" His voice was cut to a whisper by shock. He swayed a little, catching himself with the back of a chair. Was he dreaming? Had he lost his mind? Probably; for one second he dared hope the impossible, that Edward had survived somehow and no one had bothered to let him know.

"Mr Barrow, are you all right?" Lord Grantham asked.

Thomas didn't spend a thought analysing whether His Lordship was concerned or perturbed, all his focus on the face of the man standing before him. It wasn't quite the face he knew -- the blue eyes weren't milky or scarred -- but it had the same freckles, and the same curls brushing the forehead ... The man who could have been Edward spoke the next second, shattering the last shred of hope -- and peace -- that Thomas had left in him.

"Oh! No, I'm afraid not -- Lieutenant Courtenay was my brother!" Jack Courtenay said with a chagrined smile that, once Thomas knew who the man was, Thomas didn't feel this Jack fellow deserved to wear, chagrined or not. "I regret to inform you that he ... passed away some time ago. How did you know him? Oh, wait, I think I can guess: did you serve together?"

Thomas looked to Lord Grantham, knowing full well he should not have spoken in the first place. Grantham gave a slight nod towards Jack (Thomas could not bear to think of him with beloved Edward's surname attached), giving the all-clear to answer -- Grantham not having any way to know, of course, that Thomas had actually wished the earl had order him to be silent. It occurred to Thomas then that Lord Grantham might be curious to know the answer himself.

"No, sir. I worked at the hospital where your brother ...." _Died by the stroke of your mother's pen, which indeed proved mightier than a sword._ Thomas wondered if the hate he felt for the being before him showed at all on his face. He reckoned not, or the man would surely be fearing for his life ....

"Oh ...." Edward's brother seemed at a loss, then.

"It's just that ... you look so much like him, it caught me off-guard," Thomas elaborated, although he was almost certain it was someone else saying the words with his lips. It sickened him that Jack had Edward's handsome looks; the man didn't deserve that any more than he deserved to be able to smile. Thomas was viciously glad to have wiped the man's face clear of any joy now.

"Barrow, if you would pour Mr Courtenay a drink," Lord Grantham suggested.

Thomas gave a curt nod, glad for the excuse to turn away and end the conversation -- and half wishing he had something to spike a drink with. Arsenic, maybe.

"Scotch?" Lord Grantham asked the guest.

"Yes, please. I think I must apologise for how my brother came to inconvenience you and the rest of the hospital staff, Mr Barrow," Jack added.

Thomas almost dropped the decanter. _Inconvenienced??_ "His Lordship's daughter, the Lady Sybil, found him, not I," Thomas replied with his back to the man still, hoping he'd managed to sound polite, at least for His Lordship's sake. "And I do not think she thought it an inconvenience at all, just a sadness -- as did I."

"I should go apologise to her, as well, then!"

Thomas hand tightened on the glass; he was lucky it didn't break.

"I'm ... afraid dear Lady Sybil is no longer with us," His Lordship explained.

Thomas winced then at the grief in Grantham's voice, wishing he had never said a word upon entering the library. He worked to calm his own brewing tears before turning to hand the guest his drink, shoving aside memories of Edward and Sybil alike.

"Forgive me -- my condolences for your loss," Jack told Lord Grantham.

"And mine for yours," His Lordship replied.

Jack waved his hand dismissively. "I appreciate that, but there was not much love between my brother and I to begin with, sad to say -- and in any case, a suicide is not worthy of grief."

Even if Thomas had wanted to stop himself, he probably wouldn't have been able to. There was a roaring in his ears, the world going red. The next thing he knew, he was pinning their guest to the floor, gripping one lapel of the man's jacket as he punched him with the other first, yelling, "It _wasn't_ a suicide -- you _murdered_ him! You and your mother both! Killed him by taking everything the Germans hadn't already! I saw the letter! I had to read it to him, since he couldn't do it himself anymore after fighting to protect this country -- and the likes of _you_ , who got to stay home! I h- _heard_ his heart break! Heard the anger in his voice when he talked of your betrayal, you _thief!_ "

"--omas! _Thomas!_ " he finally heard Lord Grantham saying as His Lordship managed to pull him off of their guest.

It was only then that it registered in the under-butler's head what he had done. Jack's face was more than a little bloodied, lip split and one eye swollen, and the man didn't seem to be moving. The backs of the under-butler's hands were red, his knuckles aching and stinging -- there was no way to know how much of the blood was his and how much was Jack's.

Cold dread filled him, freezing him to the spot. Had he just killed a man? He held his breath, waiting to see the other man breathe in turn. Jack momentarily obliged him, chest rising and falling.

So now Thomas would just be imprisoned for assault, probably.

He had to leave. Now. There was no time to think or plan. Every second he waited was a second closer to him that the police would be. Thankfully, paranoid man that he was, he'd prepared a while ago for the possibility of an arrest. He bolted out of the room, praying that His Lordship would attend to his guest rather than give chase or call for help. He heard Lord Grantham yelling for him to wait, but the voice faded as he hurried out the door, pushing past a bewildered Jimmy.

Jimmy followed him, calling his name.

Thomas didn't slow or answer Jimmy's pleas for an explanation, but hurried on to the shack he'd once locked Isis up in. Once inside, he tore at the floorboards; beneath them was a valise with some clothes and money.

He almost laughed at the absurdity of his situation: assault wasn't exactly the crime he'd prepared the getaway for. After the thing with Hardwood, he thought the past might meet up with him again, and if Lord Grantham learned of his prostitution, on top of everything else, that might be the final straw, as far as keeping his job went. Hell, he'd even considered the possibility of being caught in a compromising position with someone -- not that he intended on stealing any more kisses (or being blackmailed into sex again), but he wasn't keen on staying celibate, either. But defending the honour of a man who was long gone and never even knew how he'd felt? That possibility hadn't exactly been on the table ....

"Thomas, what's happened?" Jimmy demanded as he filled the doorway.

"I assaulted a guest," Thomas said, then elaborated as he changed clothes.

Jimmy swore when the quick tale was done, then asked, "Where will you go?"

"Can't say," Thomas replied.

"Don't you _trust_ me?" Jimmy asked.

Thomas felt elated (inappropriately, he chided himself) to see Jimmy looking so hurt by the possibility that Thomas _didn't_ trust him. "I _do_ \-- you more than anyone!"

"Then stay! A-at least long enough for me to see what's going on and report back! I won't say a word to anyone until I know that it's safe, and if it looks like they're going to arrest you, I'll point them in the other direction."

"You'll do no such thing!" Thomas snapped. "If they intend to arrest me, and they use dogs and discover I went _this_ way when you'd said otherwise, they'll peg you as an accomplice! You'll tell them the truth, and lead them here if they ask! Swear it, Jimmy!"

"No!"

 _You stubborn ...._ Because Jimmy had followed him there and refused to be truthful, he would most assuredly be arrested. But Thomas couldn't very well ask the lad to come with him, either -- not to live a life on the run for a mistake Thomas had made. And so, there was nothing for it ....

"I'm sorry, Jimmy." With that, Thomas clocked him for his own good.

Catching Jimmy and easing him to the ground, the under-butler's heart hammered in his ears as he checked to make sure the lad was still breathing. Jimmy moaned; satisfied Jimmy would live, Thomas made a break for it.

~ * * * ~  
Robert, after checking on Courtenay, hurriedly rang the bell for Carson, then called Dr Clarkson. After checking on Courtenay again, he went to the door, intending on enlisting whoever was manning it to look for Barrow.

No one was there.

"Good heavens!" he heard Carson cry out, and hurried back, finding the butler trying to kneel beside the fellow.

"No need for that, Carson; he's still alive. Fetch some ice, would you?"

"B-but ... milord, what--"

"It seems we still have a few things to learn about our Barrow," Robert sighed.

" _He_ did this?" Carson's eyes bugged.

Robert nodded. "I don't entirely blame him, to be honest -- this fellow said some rather unkind things about his own late brother, someone whom Barrow knew. The man apparently had lost his sight and then committed suicide, and Barrow is convinced that _this_ man had led him to it. Frankly, I'm inclined to believe Barrow."

Robert didn't dare think about just what _exactly_ Barrow had felt for this Edward fellow, what the nature of their relationship might have been. Whatever the case, Robert couldn't imagine saying something so awful about Sybil or Matthew as Courtenay had said about his brother -- and if anyone tried, he might be tempted into momentarily taking up pugilism himself ....

"And ... there's no chance that this bout of violence was prompted in some way by Barrow's recent ... ordeal?" Carson asked, wincing.

Robert sighed. "I suppose it _is_ possible. I'm not even sure which to hope for." Had the incident with Hardwood secretly driven Barrow mad, with this new emotional upset being the last straw before he'd snapped? Did Barrow pose a danger? Was the poor fellow doomed to end up either in prison or an asylum? "Whatever the case, we shall do all we can for Barrow. But in order to do that, we must _find_ him, first. Who was supposed to be manning the door?"

Carson's eyes grew wide again, this time with a hint of anger. "It was _supposed_ to be James! He's not _there?_?" He moved to go to the door.

"I assure you, he's missing. Now help me get Courtenay onto the couch!"

That seemed to bring Carson to his senses -- it wouldn't do to leave a guest on the floor, after all! (Although Robert would have been mightily tempted in this case.) The task done, Robert released Carson to first retrieve some ice, then to see if the butler could find any trace of the two missing servants, whilst Robert waited for Clarkson -- and made sure the injured man's nose didn't leak blood all over the furniture.

Courtenay woke up before Clarkson arrived or Carson returned a second time. He floundered a moment before focusing on Robert. "Where is he? Your servant, Barrow?"

"Away, for the moment," Robert replied.

"With the police, I hope?" Courtenay's voice cracked, and Robert thought it was more with fear than anger.

"No. And I _would_ have it _stay_ that way."

" _What??_ He _assaulted_ me! Is that _normally_ how you treat your guests?"

"No -- but then, as I see it, you are _not_ truly a guest. You are a man who has come soliciting, and I allowed you to stay to hear you out. Whatever happened between yourself and one of my employees is between the pair of you." That wasn't really true, but Courtenay didn't need to know that.

Courtenay started to sputter a protest, but Robert raised a hand, signaling the man to wait a moment. "However ... my man Barrow may have done you a favour. I wasn't intending to buy that property you were offering, but I would consider doing so now, if it meant you would put this matter to rest. My wife is rather fond of Barrow, you see, and if I let him go without a fuss, I'd never hear the end of it. Buying a bit of land seems a small price to pay to avoid _that_."

Courtenay looked appalled. "No! Absolutely not! You cannot bribe me to overlook a crime!"

Robert shrugged. "Ah well. He was a good employee, to be sure, but with the economy how it is, we have any number of people begging us for work on a regular basis, so it shouldn't be _too_ hard to replace him." He prayed Thomas -- or any other servant, for that matter -- wasn't listening. "Come along. I'll see you out."

"See me out? Surely you're not going to throw me out in this condition!"

"As a matter of fact, I am. Although, if you refuse, I suppose it will save you some trouble -- if I ring the police to oust you, you'll be able to give them your complaint against Barrow in the process! So what'll it be?"

"Hello?" came Dr Clarkson's voice just then as he peeked in from around the corner, hat in hand. "There was no one at the door .... Oh, gracious! I take it this man is my patient!"

"Yes, Dr Clarkson -- this is one Jack Courtenay," Robert told him.

Robert saw what he thought might be recognition in Courtenay's good eye. "Clarkson -- you're the one who notified us when my brother Edward ...?"

Clarkson's brows seemed to raise into his hairline. "Courtenay? _You're_ Lieutenant Edward Courtenay's brother? I don't understand -- does this visit have to do with Downton having been turned into a convalescent home during the war?"

It was Robert's turn to be surprised. " _He_ was the one who prompted that? Well! It looks like your family has caused upheaval _twice_ in this house, Courtenay! You were right about your brother's death upsetting Lady Sybil. She and our cousin Isobel and the good Doctor here all fought to persuade me to open our home to the soldiers who were between serious injury and good health, so that the likes of what happened to your brother might not happen again."

Courtenay had the grace to look embarrassed. Robert glanced at the doctor and saw him looking a bit uncomfortable as well.

"So, uh ... h-how did this happen?" Clarkson asked Courtenay.

"Mr Barrow did it," Robert replied as if the question had been directed at him, "after Courtenay here suggested that his brother's death deserved no sympathy."

Clarkson blinked. "And here I would have thought you hated me for his loss!" he told Courtenay. "Truly, I am sorry for what happened, but it would never be enough to make up for my part."

"How do you mean?" the man asked warily.

"Well ... when I told your brother we would have to move him a bit of a ways off, he insisted he wasn't ready to leave and begged me to let him stay. As I recall, at the time, Barrow tried to argue on the lieutenant's behalf. In fact, when I called Barrow into my office to discipline him for arguing with my orders, he insisted that the lieutenant was far too depressed to be sent away -- and Lord Grantham's daughter, who was a nurse, came in and backed him up. They both had been working with your brother, you see, teaching him to get around without his sight and generally looking after him. But as I explained to them, my hands were tied -- there simply wasn't room for any but the most seriously injured to remain at the hospital. Barrow took the death extremely hard, of course, having, I think, seen it as a failure on his part to help the man -- I'm not really surprised that speaking ill of someone who died under his care enraged him."

"He ... he blamed me for the death," Courtenay said. "Said it was my mother's letter that drove Edward to it -- I never saw it, but no doubt it explained that I was taking over the estate for good, since Edward ..."

"Well, then," Robert said a bit coldly. "No wonder he turned to suicide, if he was being treated like he was already in the grave!" Robert could relate: sometimes he'd felt as though Matthew and Tom -- and now Mary, in Matthew's place -- were trying to put him out to pasture before he was ready himself.

"It looks like we _both_ played our parts in his loss, alongside the Germans," Clarkson weighed in to Courtenay. "We may have had our hands tied by circumstances, but I think maybe we could have been gentler about it all."

"Yes," Courtenay whispered, glistening eyes focused on the floor. "Lor--" He coughed, clearing his throat. "Lord Grantham, please tell your man Barrow that I am grateful to him for caring for my brother in his time of need. I will treat this--" he gestured to his face "--as a much-needed reminder of how _I_ should have done the same, and became p-poorer one brother for not doing so."

Courtenay moved to leave, then, clearly losing composure. Robert's anger quickly drained from him, lanced by pity.

"You can stay and tell him yourself." Robert thought it would do Thomas some good if he could forgive Courtenay too. At the very least, it would ease the man's mind to know Courtenay wasn't going to see him put in prison for his transgression. "In the meantime, we can discuss that land you were offering up for sale." It sounded like Courtenay was willing to let bygones be bygones, but a business transaction in good faith would probably cement the fact, now that it wasn't posed as an out-and-out bribe.

"Your Lordship?" came Carson's hesitant query from the head of the room, near the door. "If I might have a word?"

"Please excuse me a moment," Robert said to Courtenay and Clarkson, then followed the butler to the foyer.

James was there, but not to man his post; he had quite a bruise on his jaw, and he was a bit disheveled.

"Let me guess -- Barrow did this?" Robert sighed.

"Yes, milord," James confirmed uneasily, moving his jaw as little as possible.

"I'm afraid that's not the whole of it, milord," Carson added gravely.

"He only did it so I wouldn't have to lie!" James insisted pleadingly through his teeth.

Robert would have been touched by the loyalty James showed a man who had disgusted the footman only six months gone _and_ had just clocked him -- if not for the sense of doom about the young man's words.

"Lie about what?"

"Which direction he went in, I suppose. He had a stash of clothes and some money hidden away in a shack in the woods. He told me what happened -- seemed pretty sure he would be arrested. _Will_ he be?"

"No, he will not," Robert assured him. The news that Barrow had prepared some sort irf getaway gave him temporary pause, but considering how the man had almost been arrested over a kiss, Robert supposed he couldn't blame the man -- he doubted Barrow had been planning a robbery or something.

Jimmy let out a breath of relief, but quickly tensed again. "But we don't know where he's gone! How will we find him to let him know it's safe to come home?"

"Are you feeling well enough to go after him?" Robert asked.

Jimmy nodded vigorously, then winced.

"Right. You go see Dr Clarkson first, get that jaw looked at. Carson, you go gather the servants, and I'll go find Isis -- with any luck, maybe she'll lead us to him." She was quite fond of Thomas, after all, so although she wasn't a trained hunting dog, she might follow after the scent of her friend .... "We'll all meet back here at the door."

~ * * * ~  
Thomas lucked out, hitching a ride not long after reaching the road. He hoped Jimmy would be angry and / or sensible enough not to try to mislead the police, who would surely assume, thanks to the injury, that the footman was another victim of the violent under-butler. Hopefully if Jimmy did try to lie, and they realised he was lying, they would assume he'd done it out of fear of what more Thomas might do to him ....

Thomas didn't dare wonder if he would ever see Jimmy, or anyone else out Downton -- or Clarette and her family -- again.

~ * * * ~  
It turned out that Bradley was a fairly good tracker, having gone hunting with his father on numerous occasions. Between the boy and Isis, they were fairly certain they'd tracked Thomas to the road, where he must have been picked up by someone, the trail suddenly vanishing. The search party returned to the house with heavy hearts.

They found the Wainrights waiting for them; Clarkson and Courtenay had apparently filled them in. Clarette had wanted to go looking herself, but had had no idea where to start. Jimmy was viciously pleased to see Clarette glaring murderously at Courtenay. And Jimmy's heart broke as she took his hand as he passed and met his eye. Jimmy wondered if little Jenny Wainright, who was no doubt in the nursery, had the faintest idea of what was going on.

"I've explained to the police that there's been a misunderstanding," Lord Grantham told the staff a bit later, in the servants' hall, "and that Barrow may fear for his position and even his freedom, but also that neither are in actual in jeopardy. They'll be on the look-out. Meanwhile, we'll put a notice in the papers -- every edition, until he gets in contact with us."

"That probably won't do any good," Bates weighed in.

"Why not?" Anna asked.

"What could you say that would convince him it wasn't a trap meant to lure him back to be arrested?" Bates pointed out.

"His Lordship would never do such a thing!" Carson objected.

"No, but for all our Thomas knows, the _police_ might, or even just Courtenay!"

The room was silent at that.

Jimmy was pretty sure that Thomas would run like a mouse before cats if the man caught sight of the police, too. Their only hope was that Thomas would somehow get word to one of them that he was all right, and leave them with some way to contact him. As cautious as Thomas was, though, Jimmy didn't think that would happen anytime soon, if ever. At best, Thomas might send a letter from another town than the one he actually ended up in, just to let them know he was all right ....

That evening, several people -- most notably His Lordship, Clarette, and even Courtenay -- barely touched their dinner, and the conversation, which normally was joyous and lively whenever the Wainrights visited, was shockingly subdued. Late that night, at the servants' supper, Jimmy himself just picked at his food, despite having missed tea and spent half the day searching for his friend. "He'll be all right, you'll see," Anna whispered as she passed him on her way up to tend to Lady Mary. "No one's as much of a survivor as Thomas."

That cheered him a little.

~ * * * ~  
So far, so good. Thomas had made it to an inn in a town partially between Thirsk and London. To his annoyance, though, there had been some sort of delay with the paper that morning, so he didn't get to find out if there was a manhunt going on for him. To be safe, when he hit the road again, he ducked into a grove along the way and changed clothes there, so that if anyone at the inn described him, he wouldn't match it as readily. He also didn't bother shaving, hoping it wouldn't seem too suspicious -- if he could grow out a goatee, he'd feel more at ease. Thanks to a most fortuitous ride along the way, he reached his destination -- a men's club in Soho -- by early evening.

That was when his luck seemed to take a bad turn.

The club was boarded up and showed signs of a fire. Not that Thomas had been eager to come back to the place to work (especially since it was where he'd met Hardwood, and also bore painful memories of the second failed romantic relationship of his life), but it would have been _some_ thing until maybe he could find something better, or earn passage to Bombay or even America. _Now_ what was he going to do?

He walked down the street in a bit of a daze, eventually wandering a bit out of Soho; in that state, a sign with bold black letters proclaiming "Help Wanted" caught his eye, earning his attention as if it had hit him square in the face. Curious though not hopeful, he lifted his eyes to the shop's name, which was written in gold-edged black on the window: Clockworks and Watch Repair.

 _Now_ he was hopeful! He still remembered much of what his father had taught him -- could he really go back into the family business? Maybe they just wanted a sales clerk, but Thomas was confident he could handle that, if such was the case. Honestly, he probably wouldn't turn his nose up at sweeping the floor, if it meant a roof over his head and food in his belly. His stomach growled, as if in agreement, and he stepped inside the store. The ticking of the clocks was simultaneously comfortingly familiar and a painful reminder of what he'd lost. His eyes stung, making it difficult to actually see as he glanced about the place -- not even looking for the owner yet, just soaking in the beauty of the clocks.

"Can I help you?" came a familiar voice, pitched just loud enough to be heard over the timepieces.

Thomas froze a moment, wondering of maybe he was still asleep -- and afraid of the answer either way.

"Sir?"

Thomas turned.

The face was older, but even if there hadn't been some familiarity to it, all the same, the eyes ... he would know those eyes even if it had been a hundred years, rather than just over a decade, since he'd last seen their owner.

"Declan?" he whispered.

"Sorry, it's hard to hear over the clocks -- did you just say my name? Do I kn--" The eyes widened. "T ... Tumulus?" Shock gave way to delight, making Declan resemble his sister all the more. " _Thomas!_ "

And Declan threw his arms around Thomas, who didn't mind at all that he could hardly breathe now. If he died, he would die happy. He did the best he could to return the embrace with his upper arms pinned like they were. For as long as the embrace lasted, he forgot every humiliation and embarrassment he'd wanted hidden from his long-lost love, everything on a long list of reasons why he had begged Clarette not to say anything to her brother about having found Thomas.

He'd made himself forget over the years how much he'd loved Declan, but confronted with the man now, he could do nothing but remember. Remember how they'd laughed and played as children. Remember how they'd sexually awakened together in their adolescence.

Remember the devastation in those glorious eyes when his father had discovered them kissing, hands in each other's clothes, and how the whole word as Thomas had known it had shattered in an instant.

"I am _furious_ with you, you know," Declan said into the ex-under-butler's hair.

Thomas braced himself, a hundred possible reasons for Declan to be angry flitting through his head -- with him kissing Declan first that day and risking them being discovered being at the top of the list. But Declan still looked happy, if exasperated, when he pulled back enough for Thomas to see his face.

"Did it never once occur to you to let anyone know where you were? Clarette and I eventually thought you must have _died!_ "

Thomas looked away. "I ... I thought you were all better off without me." Declan started to speak, but Thomas wasn't done. "And frankly, I was half afraid our parents would sic the police on me if they knew where I was."

Declan bit his lip. "Not _my_ parents. I mean, I won't pretend they were thrilled at first, but they weren't _angry_. I got to stay in their home. _And_ your father didn't have me arrested. In fact, he ... well, he kept me on at the shop." Declan seemed apologetic that.

Thomas almost revealed that Clarette had already told him as much, and of her suspicion as to why. Instead, he paraphrased her. "That's probably because he felt it was all my doing, and that he owed you over it. To be honest, I wasn't even really sure he was wrong ...."

Declan threw his hands into the air with an exasperated sigh, then chuckled, shaking his head. "What is it with your family and your refusal to let others accept responsibility for their own actions?"

Thomas fought back a bubble of hysterical laughter. _Ah, if you only knew me over the last decade ...._ But no, it was best that he _hadn't_ known Thomas all that while.

"If I recall, _I_ kissed _you_ the _first_ time, in my room!" Declan went on. "So if one of us was the corruptor, it was _me!_ "

It was the ex-under-butler's turn to roll his eyes. "That's not what I meant about it being my fault! I mean that I shouldn't have kissed you in his _shop!_ That was one of the worst places we could have done something -- of _course_ we were going to get caught!"

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly stop you," Declan pointed out, grinning a moment before looking sad. "You paid such a high price for that kiss. It wasn't fair -- especially since I basically got the life _you_ were _supposed_ to have had -- and that despite me getting caught doing the exact same thing as you! I wanted to refuse to stay," he quickly added. "But Clarette pointed out that having a good job wasn't about just me; it was about everyone I could help if I were financially stable. Like our family, if anything should happen to my father. Like the poor, those others overlook but I would not. And like _you_ , if I could ever find you. I can give you everything your father should never have denied you in the first place -- you can be my partner in _this_ shop! Well, unless you have a good job already, of course -- I don't mean to assume you don't!"

Thomas ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, at the moment, you'd be right to assume. I actually came in to answer your ad in the window."

"Well, that settles it!" Declan said, hurrying over to the window and pulling the sign, tossing it aside. He then flipped the sign in the door from "Open" to "Closed". Thomas felt a little guilty at that, but it was getting late -- the shop probably only would have been open an hour more at best anyway, and it was empty already.

"Declan ...."

The man's face fell. "Oh ... you don't _want_ to work here."

"It's not that -- it's just -- Declan, we haven't seen each other for over a decade! How do you know I'm still someone you'd want around?"

Declan shrugged. "How would I know if I'd want _anyone_ I'd hire to be around? At least I have a better idea of that with you than I would with some stranger off the street!"

Thomas blinked. "You have a point," he conceded.

"So. Let's celebrate!" Declan rubbed his hands together gleefully and went to the back of the shop. Where there seemed to be just a wall with a wall sconce, Declan turned the sconce, and a hidden door opened several feet away.

"I think one of the previous owners used this area for illicit activities. So will you and I, I imagine, though of a different variety," Declan quipped, waggling his brows.

Thomas followed the man into a nice little work area, narrow in depth (five feet, maybe?) but wide as the shop, and complete with a couch. "Stow your valise under the bench and hang your coat on the hook there," Declan ordered as he fetched a bottle of scotch and two rock glasses out of a cabinet, quickly pouring two fingers of the gold liquid in each. "Now," he said, handing a now-coatless-and-luggageless Thomas one of the drinks. "What have you been up to all this time?"

Thomas looked mournfully into his glass, half-wishing he could drown in it rather than answer the question, wondering if Declan really would still want him around when the tale was done. Thomas threw back half of the liquid down his throat, letting the fire give him courage -- or the alcohol numb him. Either worked. "At first I was near _here_ , actually -- worked at a club. I was going to see if I could work there again, but it's apparently closed now."

Declan's eyes grew wide. "You mean ... the club that was for ... _our sort?_ "

"That'd be the one," Thomas replied, cringing. He'd hoped he could at least keep the nature of the club a secret! It was stupid of him, though, thinking that Declan wouldn't know about the place when he worked right nearby .... "It was only for about sixth months or so."

"Oh! So _that's_ why I never saw you there."

"How do you mean? Were you a ... patron?" Knowing about the place was one thing .... _Like you have any room to criticise! If he was, at least he was the one doing the paying when he went there, not _getting_ paid!_

Declan blushed. "Sort of. I went a few times, then fell for a chap there -- Alex. He came to live with me for a while, working here after the closing, but we had a falling out, and he left for America a few months ago."

"I'm sorry," Thomas offered politely, even though he wasn't the slightest bit sorry. That other man's loss might be his gain ....

Declan waved his apology off. "So anyway, what did you after that?"

"Went into domestic service. Been in it for about a decade, not including the war. I was under-butler before I left Downton." He'd felt proud about it before, but saying it now, he found himself wishing he could take the words back. He was supposed to be a merchant, his own man! When had being a servant of any kind become something to brag about?

Declan looked shocked and a little angry, but it turned out not to be over his friend's lot in life. "Downton? Downton _Abbey?_ Clarette's been there -- was supposed to go again yesterday, in fact! Thomas, _has my sister seen you there_? And not said anything to _me?_ "

Thomas was stuck on how to answer, not wanting to betray Clarette but also not wanting to lie. "She found me there last year, yeah. It's not her fault she didn't tell you!" he added quickly. "I begged her not to."

"And she _listened?!?_ "

Come to think of it, that was unusual for Clarette. If she had one flaw, it was that she often felt she knew what was best for people and acted as she saw fit, regardless of their wishes. She was a bit of a bully, truth be told. "Well ... she did say that you were seeing someone. Maybe she thought it would be easier on us both if we stayed apart?" Maybe she'd thought the man who'd left Declan was better for him than Thomas.

"So why didn't you want her to tell me?" Declan asked.

Thomas swigged the rest of his drink, then stared hard at the bottom of the glass. "I ... I was afraid to see you again. Afraid you'd hate me, afraid of stirring up bad memories for you ... and for me. Afraid to tell you what I'd had to do to get by -- and to be honest, I'm not even sure whether I'm more bothered by the prostitution or the servant business." His voice gave out on him, choked by a mix of laughter and tears.

"I'm not bothered by either," Declan said, taking the glass from Thomas and setting it aside, then lifting the ex-under-butler's chin gently. When Thomas finally met his eyes, Declan slid his hand up to cup his cheek. Thomas suppressed a shiver. "I'm just glad you survived and came back to me. You could say you'd killed a man, and I'd be fine with it if that's what it had taken to bring my first love back to me and allow me to do this ...."

Suddenly, Thomas was a teen again, butterflies made of excitement and even terror flitting about in his stomach as Declan's lips met his. Eyes closed, clocks ticking in his ears, it was like they were back in that moment, when they were still teens, back before the world had ended. Could they really pick up where they'd left off -- this time with no fear of being caught?

"You know, funny you should mention not caring if I've killed someone ...." Thomas said when they came up for air.

It was Declan's turn to blink. "You mean ...?"

"I didn't kill him! Well ... I don't _think_ so. But I did pummel a guest pretty good, so I reckon I'm something of a fugitive now."

"Well, I doubt anyone would expect to find you here," Declan shrugged, then got a wicked gleam in his eye and grinned. "Sooo, what'd you beat him for?"

And so began a long evening of swapping stories. Thomas told Delcan almost _everything_ , save the recent events with Hardwood -- which he supposed he'd eventually reveal as well. He'd never been able to hide anything from Declan. Maybe that was because he never felt like Declan judged him. Better, Declan had always been on his side. With each recollection, Declan proved nothing had changed in that regard, sympathising even when, in retrospect, Thomas had come to be ashamed of this action or that.

"Well of course you were angry! Some stranger comes into the house who can barely walk, and takes the job that should have, to any reasonable person, been yours? When people aren't going to play by the rules, why should they expect you would? Who wouldn't fight for what's rightfully theirs?" Declan said at one point, petting Thomas comfortingly as he did.

And so the evening went. Thomas supposed it wasn't healthy for Declan to forgive his every indiscretion, making excuse after excuse for Thomas, but after so many years of having no one he could really trust (even if there was a couple of years or so at the end where he'd finally cultivated some true friendships in the house), Thomas couldn't help but enjoy the attention of someone who accepted him wholeheartedly, even at his worst. And it certainly didn't hurt his self-esteem to think maybe he wasn't as much of a jerk as he'd so often been made out to be, that maybe he would have been a different, better man if people had showed him more kindness and affection. All in all, Thomas felt safe and unguarded with Declan, in a way that he'd only just recently come to feel with Jimmy.

_Don't think of Jimmy. You're out of his life now -- and probably for the better, at least for his sake._

The evening wasn't all about Thomas, of course. Declan had his own stories to tell, for one. (Thomas was terribly conflicted when it came to hearing about Declan's love life, both glad that the man hadn't been alone all that time, but also madly jealous all the same).

And then there was the matter of their new partnership. Alex, Declan's ex-lover, had only been a sales clerk, of course, having no skill at making or repairing clockworks. But Declan also liked doing sales, liked talking to the clientele; it was just that he had enough business that he often didn't have the time for that side of the work. Since Thomas _did_ know how to work with clocks, they could split the repair work, and so Declan saw no reason they couldn't be proper partners, rather than just employer and employee! As for where Thomas was going to live, there was a second apartment upstairs, which the world at large would assume he lived in -- just as they'd assumed was true of Alex.

In reality, Thomas would be living with Declan -- as in, sleeping in the same bed. Thomas couldn't wrap his head around all this: getting to live with a man he loved, a man he'd long thought gone from his life, and with no fear of discovery, and getting to be his own boss, which meant in turn being able to say no to performing any task, if he wished. (The last thing Thomas wanted to do was invoke that privilege on Declan, but the man made it abundantly clear that Thomas _could_.)

As they kissed in the bedroom that night, Thomas held fast to the memory of the first time they'd ever kissed, long ago in Declan's room, long before the events with Hardwood; he allowed himself to pretend that life after that golden afternoon hadn't happened. They'd done a fair bit more than kiss that day all those years ago, so for a while, the plan seemed to work (especially since Declan was the one who took Thomas in his mouth, not the other way around). It wasn't even like getting reacquainted, what with his hands remembering every inch of Declan as if it really had been only yesterday that they'd last been together.

They finally took that next step, denied them all those years ago, when Thomas slid inside Declan. Thomas realised then that, while he'd had sex, he'd never made love, not even with partners outside of prostitution (which, to be honest, had been few and far between). Sex had always been a frantic affair, often tinged with fear. Here, they had all the privacy and time in the world, and could savour every movement. Thomas was so happy, he wept.

The dream abruptly shattered, though, when Declan then got behind Thomas. The positioning, the feel of hands on his back and heat behind him, was too much. His breath came short, and he began to shake. And that wasn't all.

"Thomas, what is all this?" Declan asked, tracing one of the scars on the former under-butler's shoulder blade. " _Thomas?_ You're _shaking_ \-- what's wrong?" Declan quickly came to sit in front of Thomas, taking his face in his hands, furious tears in Declan's eyes. "Someone hurt you. Didn't they."

Thomas could only nod, reluctantly, throat tight with his own tears.

Declan gently kissed his brow. "I'm so sorry, Thomas. We won't do anything more. It's enough to have you in my life again, truly."

"But I _want_ to do more! I won't let Hardwood take anything else from me!"

" _Hardwood?!_ " Declan pulled back. For a moment, Thomas feared he'd drawn away in disgust. Then Declan drew Thomas tightly into his arms. "I'd heard stories," Declan whispered into his hair. "Alex had only been with him once, years ago, but it was a pretty horrible experience, and others said that the man just grew even more depraved over time. Alex heard that the servants at the club even held a party after Hardwood had died, celebrating his demise!"

"Well, I hope they thanked Phillip properly, if he ever came calling at the club after that," Thomas half-laughed.

"Phillip -- the duke you mentioned? What did he have to do with it?"

And so, reluctantly but either unwilling or unable to hide anything from his love when directly questioned, Thomas told Declan the rest of the story, pausing when memories got too overwhelming. Declan held his hand all the while, his grip tightening when Thomas got to the parts when Hardwood aimed a gun his way. Thomas never met Declan's eyes, not wanting to see pity that would doubtless be there. He hoped that it would fade over time, as it seemed to in the eyes of his friends as the months passed, that Declan wouldn't henceforth see him as broken or fragile. And here Thomas had been looking forward to the idea of seeing himself through Declan's eyes hale and whole, just as Declan had known him so long ago. He thought to maybe forget the man he had been in between, living without the daily reminder of it from others! But now that dream was already snuffed out ....

"That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger," Declan said, brushing a stray lock of the new clockworker's hair aside.

Thomas looked up then. There was ... _sympathy_ in Declan's gaze, yes, but also too of much of something else -- awe? pride? -- for there to be any room left for sympathy's more degrading cousin, pity.

"What a wondrous sword you must be, having been tempered by so many fires," Declan added.

Thomas snorted, trying to suppress a laugh. Declan had always been something of a ridiculous poet.

Declan smiled fondly, but quickly grew somber. "Can I still kiss you?"

"Yes! I want you to. In fact, I seemed to be all right, up until you were behind me ...." Not that Hardwood hadn't taken him from the front as well, but being able to see the gentleness in Declan's eyes, versus the violence in Hardwood's, seemed to make a difference ....

Declan gave him a relieved grin. "All right, then, face-to-face it is! And if there's any moment when you feel uncomfortable, just say so! In fact ... why don't _you_ lead the way?" He laid back on the bed, arms open in invitation. "Do as you wish to me!"

And grinning, Thomas did.

Being in control seemed to do the trick; he didn't panic again. Not that Declan didn't touch Thomas, but he moved hesitantly, giving Thomas a chance to refuse each action. If Thomas stiffened, he immediately drew his hand away. Thomas didn't react that way often, though. Even when the man touched a scar, Thomas usually felt all right -- partially because he could see Declan before him, with no weight of a body behind him, and partially because he didn't feel ashamed of these scars, knew Declan didn't see him as less of a man because of them. Quite the opposite, it seemed!

When they were through, hours later, Thomas curled up in Declan's arms, falling into contented sleep, feeling like everything, for the first time in years, was truly right with the world.

Well, except for not being able to see his friends at Downton ever again, of course ....

~ * * * ~  
For what happily seemed endless days after Thomas had joined Declan, it felt like he had lived and worked alongside Declan _forever_. Thomas proved a good salesman, but actually worked more on repairs; whenever Declan worked in back, it was more often on _new_ timepieces than fixing old ones. When it was quiet, Declan would show Thomas some things he'd learned from Drosselmeier, so Thomas in turn could learn to make clocks and watches, not just repair them. When he did deal with customers, Thomas found Declan's regulars to be readily accepting of him, appreciative of his repair skills and trusting of his judgement when purchasing a new piece. A few even seemed to know that there was more to the new partnership than just business, and _approved_ , especially the women -- Declan seemed to have tea with them fairly frequently, and Thomas found himself roped into these gatherings as well.

And then one day, there were some surprise guests at tea.

"Clarette! Jenny!" Thomas gasped.

Half a second later, the wind was knocked out of him as both of the Wainright women tackled him, squealing his name along with their relief at finding him alive,

"Oh, I see you've already met," Declan said dryly from behind a cup of tea.

"I should smack you!" Clarette half-snapped at Declan, her grip on Thomas still tenacious.

"Only returning the favour, sister mine," Declan retorted casually.

"And you! Didn't you learn anything from when I found you the first time? Why would you stay in hiding when you could easily reach me through Declan?" She was scowling and smiling at Thomas at the same time.

"I didn't want to put you in the middle," Thomas told her lamely. "You're friends with the Crawleys ...."

The smile fled, leaving the scowl, now confused, behind. "What has that to do with--" Her eyes widened. "Oh! You think -- Thomas, the police aren't after you! Lord Grantham saw to it that the Courtenay fellow will never press charges! You can go back whenever you like!"

His knees might have given out, if not for Clarette and Jenny holding Thomas up. He wasn't on the run? He could see Jimmy and the Bateses and Mrs Hughes and all the rest again? Just when he thought the world couldn't get any better! Grinning and laughing like a loon, he gathered the girls up into his embrace, lifting them off the ground, and spun them around.

Setting them down again, he turned to Declan. The dour expression on the man's face was like a knife in the gut. "Declan, what's wrong?"

"N-nothing. Just ... trying to remember where I put the 'help wanted' sign."

"What? Do you really want to leave the shop in the hands of a _stranger_ so we can go visit Downton?" Thomas asked, baffled. "Surely we can find someone you _know_ to mind it for us!"

"Us? Visit?" It was apparently Declan's turn to be confused. "You mean ... you're _not_ going back to work at Downton?"

Thomas stifled a laugh "Leave the man I love and work that I enjoy, and give up my freedom, all in order to go back to being a servant? In what world does that make sense? I just want to see some old friends is all -- and I was hoping you'd come with me!"

Declan laughed in relief, sliding a hand behind his neck in embarrassment. "Well, when you put it that way ...."

"Declan, is _that_ why you didn't tell me you'd found him?" Clarette asked softly, with a lopsided smile. "Not because our Tumulus asked you not to, like he did with me," she turned a momentary glare at Thomas, "but because you were afraid he would leave you if he knew he could go back? You don't think enough of yourself, brother dearest!"

"No, he doesn't," Thomas agreed, stepping up to Declan and kissing him soundly, ignoring Jenny's giggle and Clarette's effort to shush the child.

~ * * * ~  
As soon as Clarette and Jenny left, Thomas rang Downton, his heart racing as he waited for someone to answer.

"Downton Abbey; this is James speaking. How might I be of service?" The boy sounded a little out of breath; doubtless Carson was otherwise occupied and bellowed for someone to get it. They'd come a long way from the days when the phones were first installed, and only the butler or the family were allowed to use them ....

Thomas was at a total loss as to what to say.

"Hello?" Jimmy asked, sounding quite annoyed.

Oddly, that helped Thomas find his voice. "Ah, hey, Jimmy -- it's me, Thomas."

" _Thomas!!_ Oh my God, Thomas, are you all right?!"

"Yes, Jimmy, I--"

"You can come home now! Courtenay--"

"Isn't pressing charges, I know. Clarette was here just a little while ago." It made Thomas happy to know his friend cared so very much.

"Clarette was --? So where _are_ you?"

And Thomas filled him in on everything, how he'd found his first love and they were living happily together in a store devoted to clockworks. Jimmy said it was great, but sounded strangely strained.

"Who've you been on the phone so long with?" Daisy asked, her voice muffled by distance to the phone, but not by much. Thomas smiled fondly; he might have teased her, but the truth was, he'd always had a soft spot for her, like she was his sister.

"None of your business!" Jimmy snapped at Daisy, to the clockmaker's surprise.

"Aww, don't be like that, Jimmy -- let me say hi to her!" Thomas coaxed.

Jimmy sighed. "Fine. He wants to talk to you," he added, his voice growing faint.

"Who does?" Daisy asked, her voice growing louder. "Hello?"

"Hullo, Daisy. It's--"

"Mr Barrow!! Omigosh, are you all right? You can come back now, you know--"

"Yes, yes, I know, Daisy," Thomas replied, chuckling and grinning wide. "And I'm fine, really. I found a new job and a place to live. How are you?"

"A new job? Does that mean you're not coming back?"

Thomas was touched by how sad she sounded. "Not to work, no -- but I will come to visit, I promise."

"What are you two doing in here with the phone?" came Carson's deep grumble.

"It's Mr Barrow, Mr Carson!" Daisy revealed.

"Daisy!" Thomas could hear Jimmie hiss, at the same time that Carson cried, "What?! Give me the phone! And get back to work, both of you!"

There was a pause, and then, "Mr Barrow? Is it really you?"

"Yes, Mr Carson. I want to apologise for any trouble I put you and His Lordship and anyone else through."

"It's water under the bridge, Thomas," Carson assured him with surprising gentleness, and even a touch of fondness, enough that Thomas wondered if the use of his given name was a slip or intentional. "I assume James and Daisy have informed you that you're welcome to return?"

"They have indeed, Mr Carson, but ... well, I have a new job already, one I never dreamed would still be open to me."

"What?" Carson sounded affronted.

Thomas winced, hoping he hadn't just burned a bridge. "I'm more grateful than I could ever express that you would take me back, don't get me wrong! But I've been made _partner_ in a clock shop!"

"Oh!"

"You might recall that my father was a clockmaker," Thomas added.

"Yes ... I'm happy for you, my boy, if you're happy," Carson assured him, and Thomas thought he detected notes of both pride and concern. "But if something should change, do not hesitate to consider returning here as an option."

Thomas let out a quiet sigh of relief. "I appreciate that, Mr Carson, truly. And I was actually hoping I -- and my business partner -- might come for a visit? Maybe the next time the Wainrights are scheduled to come by -- my partner is Mrs Wainright's brother."

There was a bit of hesitation; Thomas suspected that Carson was mentally stumbling over the word "partner", probably wondering how exactly Thomas was using it. "I don't see why not," Carson finally replied, sounding cheerful enough, "but I should still talk it over with His Lordship ...."

The call ended with Thomas giving Carson the information he needed to get back in touch. Thomas then spent the next hour or so in agonising wait, relieved when Carson finally called back with an affirmative -- and a congratulatory message from His Lordship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's been forever since I updated. Life keeps getting in the way! LOL! Anyway, this "last" chapter took on a life of it's own and became several times longer than I intended! I'm breaking it up into three more stories under the "Unwanted Guests" heading. Also, these last story of those stories, much like the last chapter of "A Period of Adjustment", will itself be split into a few parts. It's not finished yet, but so far it looks like "Unwanted Guests" will be 8 chapters (possibly 9) instead of the intended three! LOL!!
> 
> If you're here for Thommy, it'll be a while, but it IS coming ....


	4. A Change in Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas returns to Downton with Declan in tow, and finds a cold reception where it matters most: with Jimmy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genres/Themes for this Chapter:** Introspection, Character Study, Jealousy  
>  **Prominent Characters in this Chapter:** Thomas, Jimmy, Mrs Hughes, Mrs Patmore, Anna Bates, the dowager, and several OCs (Declan Baker and the Wainright family). (The staff and the family also have a presence, but no lines.)  
>  **Relationships Featured in this Chapter:** Friends: Thomas / Jimmy, Thomas / the Wainrights, Thomas / the Crawleys (nominally) , Thomas / the Downton staff. Antagonistic: Jimmy / Declan Baker. (Nominally) Romantic: Thomas / Declan Baker  
>  **Length for this Chapter: a little over 6650 words**

_March 11th, 1922_

A few weeks later, after finishing all their repairs and arranging for someone to watch the store for a couple of days, Thomas and Declan, along with the Wainrights, paid Downton a visit. Of course Thomas and Declan were given separate rooms -- Thomas wouldn't have had the guts to do anything with Declan under that roof anyway, not after all the kindness the Crawleys had shown him. They could last a couple of days apart (he hoped). Thomas did get to stay in his old room -- the Crawleys had made it clear that he was every bit as much a guests as the Wainrights, but he wanted to spend as much time amongst his friends as possible (and stay well away from the room in the bachelors' wing that had been the location of some of the worst moments of his life).

Thomas did enter the house through the front, though, with the rest of the group, in order to both immediately thank Lord Grantham for his kindness and apologise for the disruption. Grantham seemed genuinely pleased to see him, and waved away both gratitude and apology. Tom, Sybbie, and the Crawley women were all there as well, and seemed equally pleased to see him -- even the usually scathing Lady Mary.

"So you're the one we lost our Mr Barrow to," the dowager countess sniffed, glancing over Declan. "You'd best take good care of him!"

Thomas blushed, busying himself with hugging little Sybbie as he wondered just what exactly the dowager had meant by that. It was strange how kind the dowager was to him -- was it his adventure in the woods with Isis that had earned it, or the attack by Hardwood? In any case, he wished he'd earned that affection sooner, rather than a decade after his arrival but only a short while before his departure!

"You have my word, milady," Declan assured the old woman, taking her hand and kissing it.

Thomas stayed with them all for a few minutes more as they settled in the library, then excused himself. The tea would be brought up soon, and it would just be far too weird to be served by his former co-workers .... 

"I'll come with you -- I'd like to meet your friends!" Declan said.

Thomas didn't know how to say no -- especially since he _did_ want Declan to meet them. It was just that Thomas had wanted to spend time with them without that pressure, that awkwardness, first -- and maybe get some questions answered for them. He prayed none of them would ask something that would embarrass Declan or put the man on the spot ....

When he saw everyone, his fears faded to the background, he was so happy to see them -- these people that had become so dear to him but he'd feared he might never see again. Mrs Hughes hugged him with tears in her eyes, as if he was her long-lost son. Alfred, Bradley, even Daisy and Ivy, all acted like he was an older brother that they looked up to, while John and Anna treated him like a younger sibling. To Mrs Patmore, he seemed a roguish nephew, one she showed affection for but also seemed ready to box the ears of. Carson was ever the stern father figure, one whose good graces Thomas was blessedly in. All of them welcomed Declan with a mix of curiosity and gratitude, which Declan reflected back at them, seeing as they had looked after Thomas for so many years. (Thomas had made sure to stress to Declan that John was a _friend_ now.)

Jimmy, though, was off. He smiled, but it seemed forced. He barely spoke, and kept his distance. He was minimally welcoming of Declan, and excused himself as quickly as possible from the servants' hall. The air between Jimmy and Thomas almost felt like the year after "The Incident" but before "The Reconciliation" -- but without the actual animosity, at least. Thomas was heartbroken -- he'd been so eager to see his best friend, but he felt like they were barely acquaintances now!

"Is something wrong with Jimmy?" Thomas asked Anna in hushed tones after the young man left.

"Not that I'm aware of, but I know what you mean -- that wasn't exactly a warm reception, especially considering how much he worried about you after you'd left!"

Maybe that was the problem? Jimmy worried for weeks about Thomas, only to learn that Thomas was well and happy?

"Well, whatever his problem is," Anna went on, "don't let it drag you down. Honestly, you're the happiest I remember you ever being, Thomas -- practically glowing! If I didn't know pregnancy was impossible in this case ...."

A laugh escaped before Thomas could smother it, Anna smirking at him. "You know, I _am_ really happy," he told her. "The only thing that could make me happier is if there was some magical way I could come back here in an instant, to see all of you whenever I wished." Nine hours round-trip was a bit much of a ways to travel with any frequency!

"Well, technology is making things faster all the time. You never know -- some day that travel time could be cut in half! Less, even! But in the meantime, between visits, _we'll_ all miss _you_ as well," Anna returned, squeezing his hand; he returned the gesture.

_I hope that's also true of Jimmy -- I miss him already, and I haven't even left yet! Will he be sad or glad when I go ...?_

Soon enough, Declan went upstairs, and people started milling away, getting back to work. Even Anna and John had to leave eventually, having other work to do besides sewing or polishing, work that couldn't be done at the table. Thomas decided to seek out Jimmy at that point, rather than going straight to find Declan and the Wainrights.

He found the lad in the silver pantry, polishing there instead of in the hall. This only confirmed for Thomas that something was wrong between them.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner. I swear I did as soon as I knew it was safe, that I wouldn't be hauled off to prison."

"I know -- I didn't say anything to the contrary, did I?" Jimmy insisted with strained cheer, his voice a bit higher than usual.

"No, but ... why do this out here instead of in the hall, then?"

"Oh, it's just -- I've fallen a bit behind, is all. I figured I'd best not let myself be distracted."

"I could help ..." Thomas offered, coming over.

"No, no -- we'd upset Mr Carson, having a guest do the work. You're not employed here anymore, Thomas -- enjoy it!"

"Well, let me keep you company, at least!"

"If I don't finish this now, Carson will surely make me do it later, when the rest of you are all playing cards. You'll see me tonight!" Jimmy insisted, turning further away.

 _I will if you don't make up more excuses, you mean,_ Thomas thought to himself. "All right, then -- I'll see you later."

Jimmy only nodded, his back still turned.

~ * * * ~  
Being near Thomas was infinitely harder than Jimmy thought it would be. And being near Declan was infinitely worse!

 _Why do I care so much that Thomas has moved away?_ Jimmy asked himself, no longer able to ignore his whirling emotions, as he'd been trying to do all day. He'd retreated to the silver pantry in the hopes that keeping away from Thomas would keep him from thinking about it how seeing the man made him feel, but confronted with those feelings again just now, he found his chosen mindless task left him with nothing to distract him from those thoughts any longer. _People move away all the time! At least he's kept in touch -- when did you last talk to anyone from Lady Anstruther's house?_

 _Yeah, but I didn't_ love _anyone_ there.

Jimmy fumbled a spoon with the thought. _Love?_

He'd avoided reflecting on his feelings since the night Hardwood nearly killed Thomas -- resisted thinking about his inexplicable attraction to the man or how Thomas made him feel appreciated, cared for. He especially had refused to contemplate his _own_ feelings for Thomas in turn.

 _There's nothing_ to _contemplate! You don't_ love _him! You like_ women _\-- you_ can't _be a homosexual. That's just a ridiculous stray thought._

Except ... bisexuals existed, right? So he couldn't use that as an excuse. He'd thought about this before, hadn't he? How, just because he hadn't been attracted to a man before, didn't mean it wasn't possible for him to be.

_For that matter, it's not really like you haven't been down this road before, contemplating a possible attraction to a man -- Thomas in particular!_

Of _course_ the devil's advocate in his head had to sound like Mrs Wainright.

 _Don't you remember wondering, as you looked after Thomas when he was hurt, how normal it was to enjoy touching and even looking at him? Wondering if maybe you weren't even just a shade more lavender than the average bloke? Haven't there been a few other times, when you were young, when you shrugged off noticing another guy as a stray thought, terrified God would strike you down if it were more than that, then assuming it_ wasn't _more because you_ weren't _struck down? If you no longer believe your God would strike you down, nor that it's wrong, then why not at least_ consider _the possibility that maybe you_ have _felt attracted to men -- or at least Thomas?_

Because what kind of person was he if he'd tried to have Thomas arrested for having the very same feelings Jimmy himself was capable of?

 _Everyone has thoughts of illicit things. At the time, you hadn't contemplated the fairness of that law, just obeyed it, while he had not. And, well, regardless of whether you agreed with the law or not, and regardless of whether you were interested in him in turn or not, he did kiss you without consent,_ his inner Mrs Wainright pointed out with more sympathy than he would expect from the real woman. _It's not helpful to berate yourself for acting on what you believed at the time -- especially since you can't change what happened. You know better now -- so_ do _better from now on._

What did any of this even matter, anyway? Even if he could love Thomas back after all (and he still wasn't convinced he could, that this wasn't a matter of absence making the heart grow fonder for once when he normally just grew forgetful), there was still prison to think about. Not to mention the simple fact that Thomas had moved a bit far away.

And Thomas had another love in his life.

The same love who was the reason Thomas had moved away.

An incredibly handsome man whom everybody loved and who could give Thomas everything. His own business. A home where he was his own master. A home where he could be intimate with the man he loved without fear of being fired or incarcerated. A beloved he could trust never to hurt him, never threaten to get him sacked or imprisoned.

Jimmy didn't like how he was feeling one little bit. Didn't like what kind of a person he apparently was around Declan, specifically. Jealous. Angry.

Angry enough to bend the spoon he was polishing. He hastily bent it back into shape, praying no one would notice.

Just like he prayed no one noticed him acting like a jealous prat, because it didn't seem like the feelings that spurred the behaviour were going away until Declan Baker did.

Never mind that Baker leaving meant Thomas would be leaving too.

~ * * * ~  
"James!" Carson snapped, after the footman accidentally tipped a tureen's contents into Declan's lap that evening.

"I'm so sorry, sir," Jimmy mumbled, not sounding an inch sincere.

Declan couldn't say he was exactly surprised, already having gotten the cold shoulder from the young man earlier; thankfully, the sauce in his lap was cold as well.

"Believe it or not, I've had worse," Declan quipped, hoping to lighten the moment for the sake of the hosts and staff alike. He carefully lifted the napkin off his legs, Carson quickly getting a plate under it and taking it away. Declan inspected his pants, declaring them right as rain. He almost smiled when he caught Jimmy's disappointed look out of the corner of his eye, but was glad Thomas had opted to stay downstairs, and thus missed it. Declan had no intention of tattling on the boy, and considered the matter closed.

Well, sort of.

"Sister mine, would you join me outside for a minute of fresh air?" he asked Clarette, who of course obliged him. "It was Jimmy, wasn't it?" he asked as soon as they reached the grass beyond the driveway. " _He_ was the reason you didn't tell me Thomas was alive."

Clarette smiled sadly. "You were already with Alex. Thomas and Jimmy deserved a chance."

"But from what Thomas has told me, Jimmy _hated_ Thomas when you found him!"

She nodded. "But Thomas loved Jimmy still -- he needed to work through that, one way or another. Given the opportunity, Jimmy started to come around, just like I thought he would -- might have come even further if Thomas hadn't had to leave because of Courtenay." Ah, yes, Clarette and her supposed ability to know people better than they knew themselves. Of course _she_ would see Jimmy as being able to fall in love with Thomas, despite his ill treatment of Thomas or him firmly clinging to heterosexuality. 

Then again, given the fact that Jimmy and Thomas did become best friends, and given Jimmy's seeming jealousy now, Declan couldn't exactly fault her reasoning. It wasn't like he hadn't met a few homosexual (or bisexual) men who had fought their attraction to other men tooth and nail for a long time before finally accepting it. Not that homophobic men always turned out to be homosexual, much less that they later _embraced_ being so, but it happened often enough to not be an unrealistic conjecture. But damn it if Clarette didn't sometimes choose the worst ways of going about things, when she probably should just leave well enough alone!

"Besides, think of how much harder would have been for Thomas to love Jimmy _and you_ , and not be loved by either of you in turn?"

"I _would_ have loved him! Alex and I wouldn't have had an issue with sharing, any more than you and Lucas do!"

" _You_ wouldn't have minded sharing, but would our fragile-egoed Thomas?" she returned. "In case you haven't noticed, much of the world is monogamous, Declan. I consider myself lucky to have found Lucas -- and Bridgette and Edgar, for that matter!" Bridgette and Edgar were another married couple, old friends that Declan knew Clarette and her husband were intimate with. _Very_ intimate.

"Things tend to be a tad laxer amongst homosexuals and bisexuals than heterosexuals, my dear," he pointed out.

"I'd like to agree it's certainly true in our cases! But are you sure that's because _no one_ wants monogamy, or because it's so hard to hide a long-term illegal relationship? Besides, even if Thomas _was_ open to it, do you really think you could have kept _two_ same-sex relationships, in _two different places, _from the rest of the world? And how would you have handled the distance? How much good would it have done to love Thomas if you were barely there at his side, and Alex got you most of the time? Would you have moved here, so Thomas could be with you but not have to leave his friends -- the people who have become the family that his blood kin denied him?"__

__Declan gave the idea honest consideration. "If Alex had been okay with it and moved with me, yes! And now that he's out of the picture, I'd do it today, if that's what Thomas wants!"_ _

__"And so if Alex _hadn't_ been okay with it, you probably _wouldn't_ have moved? Treating Thomas like an occasional tryst, on top of Jimmy's rejection, on top of Phillip's rejection, and on top of Edward's suicide, could have reinforced for him that no one found him worth _staying_ with. Each time you left to be with Alex again, it could have been a nail in a coffin for Thomas!"_ _

__"That's not fair, Clarette. There's no way to know now if I would have turned out to love Thomas more than Alex -- and once Alex left me, it didn't even matter! You could have at told me _then_ , if not sooner! I mean, I get that he was getting closer to Jimmy by then, and you wanted them to have a chance to be more than friends, but _I_ should have at least have liked the chance to at _least_ be friends with Thomas sooner, if nothing else. He was gone from my life for far too long, but you _could_ have shortened the separation even a little a bit!"_ _

__"Fine," Clarette said, and he knew she was just trying to placate him, not conceding his point. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner -- never mind that Thomas asked me not to," she added pointedly, as if that request ha really been any sort of deterrent for her. "But as you pointed out, it's too late to change that. So let's look at today. What will you do if Thomas comes to find that he loves Jimmy more than you, and Jimmy doesn't want to share?"_ _

__Declan felt stricken, but quickly squared his shoulders. "I want Thomas to be happy, and if that means just being friends ... so be it." That's what you did when you were in love -- you put the other person's happiness first._ _

__"And if Jimmy doesn't want you in his lover's life at _all?_?"_ _

__Declan couldn't answer immediately; the idea of not being lovers with Thomas was painful enough, but to not see him ever again? "I'd let Thomas decide." And if Thomas decided to comply with Jimmy's desires, well ... Declan wasn't sure he would survive honouring that wish, but honour it he would._ _

__Clarette sighed. "Well, no matter what they feel for each other, it seems to me the best thing to do right now would be to get you in Jimmy's good graces. Even if Jimmy doesn't feel _that_ way about Thomas, and they're just good friends, it couldn't hurt to be friendly with him, and it surely would make Thomas happy if you got along."_ _

__"Right!" One way or another, everything seemed to hinge now on Jimmy accepting Declan. _Best get that sorted first,_ before _asking Thomas if he wants to move here ....__ _

__~ * * * ~  
Jimmy had started getting past his anger, and was even looking forward to cards -- until he saw Baker enter the servants hall. Baker belonged _upstairs!_ The man got to see Thomas all the time now -- why couldn't he let them have Thomas to themselves for as long as they could tonight? Worse, Jimmy felt revulsion every time Thomas made gooey-eyes at his partner -- which seemed like every second they were together. Jimmy couldn't seem to stop imagining what they might do to each other. It was gross! (And maybe something else, but he would _not!_ think about it! He would _not!_ imagine certain body parts of his invading or being invaded by Thomas! He would not! No!)_ _

__And, well, something about Baker just ticked him off! Really, what did Thomas see in the smarmy man?_ _

__Jimmy did enjoy how poor of a poker player the guy was, though. But then, what did the man expect when he spent so much time regaling them all with stories of his childhood spent with Thomas, rather than focusing on the game. Jimmy tried to ignore the stories at first, partially because he simply didn't want to hear it, didn't want to listen to the man try to charm all of them, and partially because he suspected it was the man's attempt at a distraction. It helped that Jimmy already knew some of the stories, from Thomas._ _

__But then he told a story Jimmy didn't know, and Jimmy found himself captivated despite himself. And another. And another. When the day had started, Jimmy had thought Baker couldn't possibly know or appreciate the man Thomas had become, that Baker had assumed that Thomas was still the same boy the man had once known -- and that Thomas had made the same assumption of Baker. Surely, with Thomas returned to Downton, they would both realise their mistake and each go back to their own lives, Jimmy had thought. But ..._ _

__Thomas seemed so different now -- so _happy_. Happy in a way that the happiest Jimmy had ever seen Thomas paled in comparison to. What if _this_ was the real Thomas? Did Jimmy really know him after all? Whether he did or didn't, how could Jimmy want anything less than this for his friend? Yet it hurt Jimmy to see Thomas happy, knowing that it was someone else, some stranger to them all, that made him that way! Knowing that being at Downton wasn't enough for the man anymore._ _

__What kind of a selfish monster _was_ Jimmy?_ _

__Hot, angry, and tired, Jimmy apologized and excused himself, not able to bear another minute of trying to hide his confused feelings._ _

__"What, so soon? Please, Jimmy, just a few more hands?" Thomas asked, catching Jimmy's sleeve as he started to rise._ _

__"Yes, please stay!" Baker echoed. "You're all so important to Thomas -- that means you're important to me, too, and I want to get to know you all better! _Especially_ you, Jimmy -- why, if not for you, Thomas might not be alive today!"_ _

__The praise threw Jimmy off-guard; between that and the plea from Thomas (and the echoes of it around the table), Jimmy gave in. "Well ... I guess I could play a few more hands."_ _

__The beaming smile Thomas gave him was worth it -- although it also gave Jimmy one more thing to miss when Thomas left._ _

__"Now, Thomas and I have monopolized enough of the talk this evening," Baker remarked as he shuffled the deck. "I said I want to know you all better, and I mean it! So why don't we go around the table, and you can tell me a bit about yourselves. Jimmy, how's about you start?"_ _

__"I ... I'm not really sure where _to_ start," Jimmy mumbled in protest, not liking the idea of being under scrutiny one but -- not when he was struggling to keep his emotions in check._ _

__"Come, now -- Lucas tells me you're quite talented as a pianist -- where did you learn?"_ _

__Lucas Wainright had talked about _Jimmy?_ "Uh ... well, Lady Anstruther herself taught me. She was playing when I brought her tea one afternoon, and asked me if I knew how to play."_ _

__"Can I hear you play something?" Baker asked, gesturing to the piano._ _

__"Well ... maybe just a quick something," Jimmy agreed in spite of himself._ _

__Once song turned into three, and Thomas dancing with each of the girls in turn. Jimmy tried not to imagine what dancing with Thomas would be like. Why would he even _think_ to imagine it?_ _

__"Okay, that's the last -- I'm sure Mr Carson will start bellowing if I try another," Jimmy said as he retook his seat._ _

__"That was completely marvelous, Jimmy!" Baker said, clapping as enthusiastically as the rest, perhaps even more so. Dammit if the man wasn't making it hard to dislike him! "Now, who's next? Mr Bates?"_ _

__And so it went for another two hours, each person at the table -- the Batses, Mrs Hughes, Daisy, Ivy, Mrs Patmore, Alfred, and even hallboy Bradley -- telling a little about themselves, surprisingly often turning out to be things that Jimmy didn't know. Jimmy was even laughing and smiling before long. But when it was time for bed, he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that Thomas would be gone soon, and how it would be who knew how long before he saw his friend again._ _

__His mood was apparently painted on his face the next morning._ _

__"It's sad that our Thomas is going back to Soho today, isn't it?" Mrs Hughes remarked when she saw Jimmy. "Still, we should do our best to put on a brave face. Better to make the best of the time we have with him than to focus on his departure, don't you think? Let him leave with happy memories -- and a reason to come back as soon as he can ...."_ _

__She had a point -- but part of Jimmy wondered if a clean break, like he'd had from the household of Lady Anstruther (save from the odd letter now and then), wasn't better than living from visit to visit, and thus saying goodbye again and again ...._ _

__"Ah! Jimmy! I was just talking about you," Thomas greeted cheerfully a moment later, coming out of Carson's office. "Would you come to the village with Declan and I? I just cleared it with Carson!"_ _

__"What? But it's not my half-day!" Jimmy protested._ _

__"Oh, it won't count as such," Thomas assured him. Then he dropped his voice. "To be honest, I think the old man is afraid of what Declan and I might get up to, and wants someone with to play chaperone!"_ _

__An afternoon of keeping Thomas and Baker apart? Jimmy had mixed feelings about this. Baker had turned out more likable than Jimmy wanted to admit, but he still didn't relish the idea of spending a lot of time with him -- especially if it meant witnessing Thomas being lovey-dovey with him. At the same time, the idea of thwarting the pair's affections towards one another held some appeal. Either way, though he wondered, "What about Clarette and Lucas?"_ _

__"Clarette's hanging out with Lady Mary, Tom, and the children, and Lucas had to leave early," Thomas explained._ _

__"Well ... I guess if Mr Carson's okay with it ...."_ _

__"Oh, go on, Jimmy!" Mrs Hughes urged. "How often does Mr Carson allow extra time off that isn't scheduled in advance and doesn't involve docking pay?"_ _

__Jimmy chucked. "When you're right, you're right, Mrs Hughes!"_ _

__"And don't you forget it!" she replied with a wink._ _

__~ * * * ~  
Declan had seemed so eager to see the village, but once they'd gone to The Grantham Arms, Thomas thought his lover seemed decidedly uncomfortable. After finishing his food, Declan stood and announced, "Do you know, I want to go back to that one store for a second look. I'll just leave you boys to it, and come back when I'm done, shall I? I shant be more than half an hour."_ _

__Ah, so he wanted Thomas to have time alone with his friend. It was sweet of Declan, of course, but Thomas wondered if it was really a good idea, as he wasn't entirely sure Jimmy was happy to see him. The lad had been determined to walk between them the whole while, reinforcing the fear Thomas had that Jimmy wasn't so accepting of Thomas being gay as he'd claimed in the months just before Thomas had left._ _

__"I'm glad Carson let you have off," Thomas said, trying to be cheerful, eyes on his plate because he was half afraid the waterworks would start if he looked at Jimmy. Every time he did, it made his heart ache. It was selfish and stupid -- he loved Declan with all his heart, and Jimmy wasn't that way, but Thomas wished he could have them both. "I would have stayed at the hall if you couldn't, though, of course. Helped you shine the silver or whatever," he went on when Jimmy didn't respond._ _

__Things hadn't been so awkward between them in nearly a year, and it hurt even more than he remembered. Still, just as the time after The Incident but before The Reconciliation, Thomas wouldn't give up the chance to be around him, no matter how much it hurt._ _

__"Why would you do that?" Jimmy laughed. "You're well away from that kind of grunt work, and now you'd be doing it for free!"_ _

__"I'd do it for _you_ ," Thomas clarified quietly. "We're friends, right? Considering the things we've been through, helping with a chore is the least I could do, especially if it meant we could hang out without Carson griping. Besides, I do a fair bit of shining at the shop -- 'cept now I only get paid when someone buys the piece," he chuckled. "Oh, the perks of being a self-made man."_ _

__"Is the store not doing well?"_ _

__If Thomas didn't know better, he'd say Jimmy sounded more keen than worried. It almost made Thomas laugh; it _did_ make him smile. Maybe things weren't so far gone between them, if Jimmy was hopeful that Thomas might have reason to come back. If he didn't still like Thomas, why would he otherwise care? Surely he couldn't have regressed back to hating him enough to want him to fail just for spite?_ _

__"No, no, nothing like that. If anything, we've had some days where there's been more than we could handle." Thomas got an idea, then, but quickly squelched it; it wouldn't do for him to say something out of turn, without discussing it with Declan first .... "But I would say that a bit more than half of the business is repairs, not selling new timepieces."_ _

__"So the shining of the timepieces feels a bit of a waste, like polishing silver that's just going to get dirty again," Jimmy reasoned._ _

__"Exactly! I imagine the maids feel the same about the making the beds," Thomas laughed._ _

__He was glad to see Jimmy laugh back. For the next twenty minutes or so, it felt like Thomas had never left, him and Jimmy talking about things in the paper, and about sports. They were laughing again when Declan returned._ _

__Declan had on a cheerful façade, but Thomas could tell he was worried about something. Thomas resolved to demonstrate most thoroughly that Declan had nothing to fear, if Jimmy was what -- or who, rather -- the man was worried about. While Thomas did still love Jimmy, it was not in the way he once had, and Jimmy had _never_ loved Thomas that way (if he actually loved him at all). And Thomas loved Declan every bit as much as he loved Jimmy, regardless of the nature of that love -- Declan wasn't a consolation prize._ _

__But if Jimmy was also feeling jealous in some way, Thomas had to be careful to not let Jimmy feel "less-than" either ...._ _

__"Well, gents, is there anywhere else we should go before heading back to Downton?" Thomas asked._ _

__"I think I've seen enough," Declan said, his smile somewhat brittle. "How's about you, Jimmy? Is there anything you'd like to do?"_ _

__"Oh, nothing that I can think of," Jimmy replied. Something in his eyes suggested there was indeed something he could think of -- and that Declan probably would not find it pleasant._ _

___Wonderful. I'm Lady Mary,_ Thomas thought to himself, thinking of the wealth of suitors she enjoyed now that she was a widow. (Although, at least all her suitors presumably wanted to actually sleep with her, whereas Jimmy just wanted to pal around, it seemed ....) _ _

__~ * * * ~  
"There's already a clockmaker in town," Declan muttered to Clarette as he escorted her and Jenny to the car waiting outside, glad that Thomas had asked for a few more minutes to make his goodbyes._ _

__"Damn!" Clarette whispered, hands over Jenny's ears. "Any chance they could be bought out?"_ _

__Declan shook his head. "Older chap, but reckons he's not quite retirement age -- figures he's got a good five years left. Whole village loves him, and he loves them. He's comfortable and happy." Declan couldn't begrudge the man that._ _

__"Everyone has a price," Clarette insisted._ _

__Declan raised a brow. "When did you become such an aristo? You know the lower classes hate that attitude -- you used to yourself!" Declan and Clarette might never have been lower than upper middle-class, but that was still low enough to have had negative encounters with people who thought throwing their money around would get them everything!_ _

__"Yes, well, I'm quite willing to be a hypocrite when the happiness of anyone I love is involved. Don't worry, I won't hire the mafia to off him or something," she added wryly._ _

__It worried him that she thought _he_ thought she would even consider it. It worried him even more her statement could easily be interpreted either as her saying she would hire the mafia to do something _else_ to the man, or, worse, that she would just hire someone _other_ than the mafia to kill the clock-shop owner ...._ _

__~ * * * ~  
"Not that I mind in the slightest -- you know I adore Jenny -- but why wouldn't Clarette and Lucas be taking her with them?" a puzzled Thomas was asking Declan one day the next week, back at their shop. Declan had just asked Thomas if he minded Jenny coming to stay with them for a whole week while her parents stayed at a retreat._ _

__Declan pursed his lips, and Thomas felt slightly alarmed. The man was obviously weighing how much to tell Thomas, but why would he consider keeping something from him?_ _

__"Maybe you should ask Clarette when she gets here tomorrow," Declan hedged._ _

__And, when Declan almost immediately took Jenny out to the park, Thomas did just that._ _

__"Oh! Well, the weekend will pretty much be one long orgy, so it's not like there'll be anything for her to do."_ _

__Thomas almost dropped the clock he was holding. Clarette smirked at him as he clumsily saved it; she obviously had enjoyed throwing him for a loop._ _

__He half-laughed. "Very funny."_ _

__"I'm not joking."_ _

__Her smile grew slightly dangerous, warning him that she was about to present one of her controversial notions, and he would do well to keep an open mind. He glanced at the door nervously, wishing someone might come and interrupt the conversation right then, and not when Clarette was in the middle of an impassioned speech about a delicate subject._ _

__"I love my friend Bridgette as much as I love Lucas,"she revealed. Thomas had a vague recollection of Bridgette being Clarette's best friend at boarding school. "Lucas loves Bridgette 's husband Edgar as much as he loves me. And Edgar and I are very, very fond of one another, even if we don't love each other quite the same as we do Bridgette or Lucas. The same goes for Bridgette and Lucas, with each other. We bought a little cottage in the middle of nowhere so that we could make love with them without risk of exposure. Normally, we only go for a night every few weeks, but Lucas goes on a three-month tour in a month, and it's his birthday and Bridgette's while he's away, so we thought we'd make it an extended stay." She shrugged like it was nothing._ _

__He understood it was a warning that he should think it _was_ nothing, but ...._ _

__"And it ... it doesn't bother any of you ...?"_ _

__Clarette sighed her disappointment, and it was one of the worst sounds Thomas had ever heard -- almost as bad as when Sybil had done it. "Thomas, do you eat the same exact thing at every meal?"_ _

__"... No?"_ _

__"Well, if you eat something different for lunch, does it mean you love it more than what you had for breakfast?"_ _

__"No ..."_ _

__"No," she agreed. "Even if you could narrow down your favourite, it doesn't mean you would only ever eat that henceforth. Why limit your experience? Besides, I imagine that, when you worked at that brothel, you had more than one client."_ _

__"That was different! That was work!"_ _

__"So you'll sleep with multiple strangers for pay, but will only sleep with one person you love -- why? Because they won't pay you, and you don't like giving it away?"_ _

__"No! It's out of respect for the one I love most!"_ _

__"And disrespecting the rest in the process?"_ _

__"I only love Declan anyway!"_ _

__"I don't believe that for a second, but let's say it's true. What if Declan loved someone else?"_ _

__Thomas felt his heart stutter. " _Does_ he?"_ _

__"If he currently does, he hasn't told me, but if he did, would you let him be with that person as well, or would you restrict him?"_ _

__"... I ...."_ _

__"Love is the most wonderful thing in the world, Thomas! Why would anyone want to limit the amount of love that someone they purport to love in turn could get? You know that Declan had another lover not long before you came back. What if they were still together? Wouldn't it be better for you if Declan were able to be with you without having to leave the man he was with? Or what if Jimmy were to profess his love for you?"_ _

__Head swimming, Thomas latched onto the truth there like a life-vest. "He wouldn't!"_ _

__"Wouldn't he? He certainly acted like a jealous lover when you and Declan visited!"_ _

__That nearly floored Thomas, as Jimmy's strange behavior came back to him. Could it be ...? He shook his head, disturbed by the sudden hope flaring in him. He didn't need Jimmy that way, now that Declan was back in his life. Imaging it was disrespectful to Jimmy, who had made his feelings clear years ago. And besides ... "Even if that were true, that means Jimmy wouldn't accept me being with Declan!"_ _

__"Because he, like you and most everyone, believes you can love only one person at a time. But if most everyone is wrong about homosexuality being wrong, then isn't it possible that they're also wrong about monogamy being the only way to be? Don't discount a possibility just because most other people don't do it. If you have the courage to try something new, maybe Jimmy might find it too."_ _

__"Well, what about Declan?"_ _

__She smirked. "I think maybe you should talk to Declan himself about that."_ _

__And so, after Clarette had left and while Jenny was taking a nap ...._ _

__"I had a very strange conversation with your sister," Thomas revealed to his lover, then confiding the details._ _

__"Let me put it this way," Declan began when Thomas had finished. "I would have liked for us to both be with Alex, yes. What would have held us back would have been the pair of you -- if one of you couldn't have agreed to it, I would have had to make a choice, but only then. I suspect I would have chosen you, but it could just be the fact that I'm with you now that makes me think that." He smirked in Clarette's maddening way. "Now. If you want to bring Jimmy into our relationship, I'm perfectly willing to give it a try -- if you can talk him into it."_ _

__Again with the hope-flaring .... "I wouldn't even know where to begin in trying to ask. I mean, as best I know, he only likes _girls_ \-- it's probably best not to assume otherwise!" He'd made that mistake before ...._ _

__"Fair enough. I'm just saying, if the subject ever should come up, all I want is for you to be happy, Thomas, and if Jimmy could and would add to that happiness, then ... well, now you know where I stand."_ _

__Thomas nodded, feeling a weird mix of elation and disappointment. It was stupid to get his hopes up over something that would likely never be. Worse, even with Declan's blessing, Thomas felt guilty upon realising that he still had feelings for Jimmy .... And what if Alex came back into Declan's life? Could Thomas extend Declan the same courtesy, and bear the idea of Declan loving anyone else?_ _

__Apparently sensing the turmoil inside Thomas, Declan kissed him, thoroughly erasing any doubt that the man loved him._ _


	5. Death isn't Invited - Part One: Home Invasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When men out for vengeance burglarise the shop, Thomas could lose everything -- including Declan ....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genres/Themes for this Chapter:** Introspection, Character Study, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome, Home Invasion, Hate Crime, Gun Violence, Child Endangerment, Threats Against a Child, Violence Against a Child (a bonk on the head)  
>  **Prominent Characters in this Chapter:** Thomas and several OCs (including Declan Baker and the Wainright family)  
>  **Relationships Featured in this Chapter:** Friends: Thomas / the Wainrights, Thomas /Jimmy (long distance). Antagonistic: Thomas / OMCs. Romantic: Thomas / Declan Baker, Jimmy / Thomas / Declan (fantasy)  
>  **Length for this Chapter** : a little over 6650 words

_December 16th, 1922_  
Months passed. After the tour, the Wainrights had Jenny stay with her uncles for the occasional weekend, and Thomas found he rather enjoyed the domestic feel of life when she was around. He'd never imagined getting the chance to know what it would be like to be a father, much less thought he would enjoy it! And when he visited Downton, seven times over the course of the months, he found himself all but declared an adopted uncle to Sybbie as well.

Spending time with Sybbie took a little sting out of how Jimmy seemed to avoid him during his visits -- especially when Declan was along. On the three visits without Declan, Jimmy seemed more companionable, almost to the point of old (good) times, but then Thomas would slip and mention Declan, and Jimmy would get closed off again (more like the not-so-good old times).

Thomas was kept too busy to fret much about it, though. The clock shop's business had steadily grown over the months -- Thomas had always been the better clock-worker, and with Declan freed up more, the ladies (and some gentlemen) seemed to be damaging their own watches to have an excuse to come in and talk to the handsome man! Thomas supposed he ought to be jealous of the men (at least the younger ones), but Declan never left him wanting for affection, even sneaking kisses and loving touches during the day. If not for Jimmy's aloofness, the world would be perfect -- so on days outside of Downton, Thomas tried to forget Jimmy was even apart of it.

That didn't really work -- especially not when he found himself trying to pick out a Christmas present for the man. He was picking out presents for the rest of Downton -- he couldn't very well leave Jimmy out, or even give him something as generic as a fountain pen. (He was tempted to do that anyway, though, and include a note saying that Jimmy now had no excuse not to write ....)

Out with Jenny on the first day of another week-long visit, Thomas hurried her past the shop that had the doll he'd ordered for her prominently displayed in the window -- they'd actually run out of stock (other than the display), but were putting two aside for him from the next shipment. It was an amazing work, something he was certain neither Jenny nor Sybbie had seen before, and he wanted it to be a surprise.

"We should get some lunch," he suggested, distracting her.

"How about that pub?" she suggested, pointing to someplace called The Badger's Den.

He blanched. "That's a little rough-and-tumble for you, innit? How's about a nice café, or a teahouse?"

She rolled her eyes in exactly the same way as Declan and Clarette, and he wondered for a moment if such things were learned or hereditary. "Do you really think my mother would hesitate to go into a pub? They have better food than a café or a teahouse, more filling! I want a stew and pie, not a finger-sandwich and a biscuit!"

He found her as impossible to argue with as her mother, and so they found themselves in the little hole in the wall, tossing ideas around for Jimmy's gift.

"Eeyah, wotchoo doin' in my seat, ya tosser? Go back to the men's club," a voice growled behind him.

Thomas bristled, but for Jenny's sake, kept his cool. "Begging your pardon, sir, but this seat was empty when we got here. We're just finishing up and will be on our way. If you get yourself something from the bar, my treat, we'll be ready to go by the time you're done, I'm sure."

"Oh, well, listen t'you, all polite while givin' orders! Well, this ain't a manse, _milord_ \-- you're in _my_ 'ouse now, an' what _I_ say goes. An' I say, 'Get lost!'" With that, the man gave Thomas a hard shove off his stool.

"Hey! Leave him alone, you big bully!" Jenny stood up and smacked the man upside the arm, heedless of how the man towered over her.

Thomas had intended to avoid a fight, he really had, but his stomach lurched in horror as the monster lifted Jenny into the air. Who knew what the man intended to do, but he dropped the child when, aloft, she kicked him in the bullocks. Doubling over just a moment, the man then lunged at the child with a roar -- and ended up tackling Thomas instead. The next minute or so was a blur of fists, most of which Thomas successfully dodged or landed himself. And then it was over, the bully having apparently tripped over a stool (which Thomas suspected Jenny had slid into the man's path) and taken a header into a table. As the man moaned, Thomas and Jenny took their leave.

"Allo, Mr Barrow!" said a man coming in as they left. This was the guy Declan had watch the shop whenever they were out at Downton!

"Mr Weatherly," Thomas tipped his hat, too eager to be quit of the place to indulge in any more pleasantries than that.

"That was fun!" Jenny crowed as they went down the street.

"You and I have very different definitions of 'fun'," Thomas replied, nursing stinging knuckles. Still, he didn't entirely disagree .... "Now, not a word about that to your mum or Uncle Declan, 'ey?" Despite Jenny's assurance, Thomas was thinking, now, that he should have trusted his first instinct and taken Jenny somewhere else.

"Why don't we try in there for a present for Jimmy?" Jenny suggested, pointing to a pawn shop.

"Oh, I dunno, I want to get him something _nice_ , not someone's old junk ...."

"There are some nice things in pawn shops!" Jenny protested. "People sell the best things they own!"

Thomas sighed, caving. The shop was full of random odds and ends, haphazardly displayed, and the atmosphere of the place was beyond shady. He resolved to get Jenny back uptown in a hurry, no more delays--

"What about that?" Jenny suggested, pointing to a tarnished gold lighter. Thomas had a flash of memory, of the night he'd gotten himself out of the war by holding his lighter aloft. Shuddering, he found himself picking this one up despite the memory, turning it over.

 _J. T. Kent_ it read.

Thomas felt like the floor had dropped out from under him. Jeffery Terrance Kent was Jimmy's father's name!

Dazed, Thomas brought the lighter up to the shopkeeper, to pay for it. He might still look for something else, but it was just too much of a coincidence to leave without it!

~ * * * ~  
Thomas didn't find anything better; by the end of the day, he'd decided that the lighter was the gift. _May you help warm things between us,_ he thought at it as he turned it over and over in his hand in bed that night, before laying it on the nightstand and going to sleep.

He wasn't asleep long before Declan woke him in the dark, hot hands slipping along his skin and into his pants, waking him below as well.

"Declan, not when Jenny is right across the hall!" Thomas half-heartedly insisted.

"Sorry, but we've waited long enough already, don't you think?" a familiar voice that wasn't Declan's asked.

Thomas scrambled for the bedside lamp, but it wouldn't turn on. His hand found the lighter, and he used that instead. Flicking on the flame, he found Jimmy, in all his golden nude glory, granting him a bemused smile.

Thomas grew rock-hard even as his stomach filled with a stone of guilt, despite having Declan's blessing. How had Jimmy come to be in his bed? As Jimmy leaned forward to kiss him, half of him wanted to pounce, and half of him wanted to kick the man out of he room. Lighter going dark again, he stayed stock-still as Jimmy's mouth claimed his. He wanted to enjoy it, tried to, but as much as he wanted the kiss -- and he did, badly; he hadn't stopped loving Jimmy any more than he'd stopped loving Declan -- when had Jimmy changed his mind? Something was off about all this ....

Seeing that Thomas was just tolerating, not returning, the contact, Jimmy stopped, eyes loving and concerned. "Thomas, what's wrong? I thought you wanted this!"

"Hey, come on, Thomas, loosen up!" came Declan's voice. The flame flickered to life again; Thomas found Declan lying beside him, grinning lopsidedly, lighter in his hand. "Do you know what I had to go through to get him here?"

" _You_ brought him?" But ... didn't Jimmy dislike Declan? And, well, the idea of gay sex?

"I want you to be the happiest you can be, I told you that!" Declan gently chided with fond exasperation, before kissing him soundly, the light going dark again.

Hands slipped up his shirt, teasing his nipples, and down his pyjamas, fingers dancing along his length. He moaned into Declan's mouth, any hesitation obliterated. He whimpered when Declan drew away, then Jimmy took over -- Thomas could tell by the taste. He gently twinned his own fingers in Jimmy's hair, his other hand finding Declan's mane as the man flicked a nipple with his tongue, setting Thomas on fire. Jimmy slipped free of his grasp, eliciting another mew of protest -- and then Thomas felt wet heat envelop his cock, and his brain melted ....

A crash woke Thomas. Declan was sound asleep beside him. If Jimmy was in the room, Thomas couldn't see him. Thomas tried to turn the bedside lamp on, but like his dream, nothing happened. He has a sinking feeling, when he flicked the lighter on, he wouldn't have a similarly happy result, though.

Thomas heard another noise, and didn't dare let himself believe it was Jimmy.

He shook his lover's shoulder. "Declan! Dec, I heard something!"

"Nnn, s'nothing," Declan replied, immediately snoring.

Thomas shook him again. "Dec!!" he hissed.

"All right, all right, I'm awake!" Declan chuckled, sitting up.

Slipping on his robe, he crept out of the room, listening, Declan a step behind him. There seemed to be movement downstairs, so he headed that way, thinking they were being robbed.

It was worse.

He found the man from the pub spreading liquid all about --kerosene, from the smell.

"Hey!" Thomas snapped, absently pocketing the lighter, then charging.

The man pulled a gun, firing.

Thomas hit the floor -- not because of a bullet, but because Declan had pushed him out of the way. He turned and found Declan, looking stunned as red slowly blossomed over his chest. He sank to his knees, Thomas catching him with a cry, heart pounding with dread. He wracked his brain for the medical knowledge he attained in the war -- he didn't think the hit was vital, but it was too close to be sure.

And there was still the gunman to contend with.

Another shot just barely missed Thomas, shattering the glass of a clock behind him. 

Jenny, now at the foot of the stairs, screamed.

The gunman ran for her, grabbing her and dragging her to the door.

For too long a moment, Thomas hesitated, not wanting to leave Declan.

"Go after her!" Declan begged. "I can make it out myself -- go!"

Spurred into action, Thomas slipped away, wincing as Declan fell without the support. Every step was like being torn in two, terror for his love warring with terror for his niece-in-all-but-blood. He could hear Jenny's screams before he even got out the door -- and when when her screaming stopped, he felt like his heart had stopped too. 

Outside, he saw her crumpled on the ground at the madman's feet.

Their fight was similar to the one they'd had in the pub -- at least until he was distracted by a crash and a sudden roar. Glancing back, he saw flames through the now-broken shop window, a man walking up to him him from it.

"Hullo, Mr Barrow," the oddly-familiar man greeted with an ugly grin. "Do you remember me? I was Hardwood's chauffeur -- until you and your friends lost me my job an landed me in jail! Lucky for me, Hardwood had friends in high places ...." The man swung a crowbar at Thomas, but missed when an explosion from the shop knocked them all off their feet.

" _DECLAN!!_ "

Thomas tried to run back to the building, but didn't even make it fully back to his feet before the ex-chauffeur grabbed his ankle, pulling him off his feet again. He struggled, kicking, but the chauffeur held tight, pulling him back. The gunman began kicking Thomas with heavy workboots, the pain agonizing. The cobblestones beneath him were wet, cold, and hard, adding insult to injury.

The chauffeur let go, then took back up his crowbar and started hitting Thomas with it. Thomas held an arm up in defence; there was a sickening crack as the heavy metal connected with the more fragile limb. Thomas screamed, forgetting everything as he cradled the limb, only for another wave of pain to envelop him when another strike landed on his shoulder.

"Hey! Hey, you! Whaddya think you're doin'?" someone down the street called out.

His assailants fleeing, Thomas tried to rise, but pain pinned him to the ground, soon robbing him of sense, the subsequent darkness a blessing.

~ * * * ~  
"Declan!" Thomas called out as he woke, barely conscious, pain threatening to steal what little awareness he'd gained. He lay back against softness, drawing in deep breaths as he studied his surroundings. A hospital of some kind. His left arm was in a cast.

"Well, hello there!" A kind voice greeted him, the source swimming into view: a nurse. "How do you feel?"

"Where's Declan? Did he get out? And what about Jenny?" Thomas asked, frantic and trying to sit up.

The nurse gently but firmly pressed his shoulder back against the bed. "Please calm down, sir! I don't have any answers for you, but now that you're awake, we can find out. First, I need to know your name."

"Thomas Barrow," he replied weakly.

"You were found outside of a clock shop -- did you live there?"

"Y-yes. With Declan Baker, my business partner -- and his niece, Jenny Wainwright, was visiting us! Are they okay?"

The nurse looked worried, then, and his stomach sank. "A girl was brought in with you, but no one else, I'm afraid."

Thomas sat up quickly, head swimming and heart racing. He let out a frustrated sob. "He was shot -- he was still in the building!"

The nurse looked ashen. "Let me find the doctor -- he might know more. Meanwhile, you lay back and rest."

"But Jenny!"

"She's sleeping in the next bed -- she has a concussion. Please, just rest here, and after the doctor sees you, maybe you can sit beside her, okay?"

Thomas didn't know how he could be expected to rest under the circumstances, but it turned out his body was more agreeable than his mind, and he unwillingly drifted into a exhausted doze.

A doctor woke him later, and introduced him to a policeman, who asked what had happened.

"Please, I'll tell you anything -- just tell me first where Declan is and how Jenny is doing!"

The policeman and the doctor exchanged glances. The doctor sighed and nodded once.

"I regret to inform you, Mr Barrow, that a body was found burnt beyond recognition in your shop." There was a sudden rush of air in the clock-maker's ears, the rest of the policeman's words muffled. "Unless there was someone else living with you, we must presume the remains are those of Mr Baker."

Thomas hurriedly grabbed the bedpan and was sick into it. Stomach emptied, he dry-heaved a few times, left gasping. His subsequent sobs didn't help his attempts to breathe.

"Please, Mr Barrow, you must calm yourself," the doctor insisted, laying a patronising hand on his shoulder.

Thomas resisted the urge to pull away -- or worse, punch the man. "Jenny?" he demanded.

"She ... she has a concussion. It's bad -- she's in a coma. Beyond that, it's too soon to say."

"But the sooner _you_ talk to _us_ , the sooner we can find the men who did this," the policeman added, earning a glare from the doctor.

Thomas took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I know _exactly_ who one of them was, and have some idea where you can find out about the other," he growled.

What Thomas _didn't_ know was how to reach Jenny's parents at their retreat -- that information had gone up in flames, and was otherwise locked in the unconscious Jenny's mind. All he could do in the meantime was sit beside her, grieving Declan. He prayed the Wainwrights heard the news, wherever they were, and came for her daughter soon.

The sooner they did, the sooner Thomas could shuffle off this mortal coil. Either he would be with Declan again, or he would be forever numbed from the agony of his loss.

~ * * * ~  
Two days later, Jenny was still unconscious -- and her parents were nowhere to be found. Every waking moment took all the willpower Thomas had to keep living. He was just so tired, down to his very soul.

Thomas decided to take a walk that morning, unable to bear the pitying glances of the nurses or Jenny's near-dead state a second longer. (The doctor had said Thomas should start moving about a little; he just didn't define what "a little" was ....) Politely declining any aid despite the awkwardness of his broken arm and other injuries, he put on the donated clothes a nurse had left in the drawer of his bedside table, then put on the likewise-donated shoes and coat. His aimless steps found him outside of the store window with the doll in it. Realising that the ones he ordered would be in now, he went in and picked them up, having the one for Sybbie gift-wrapped.

Returning to the hospital, he carefully placed the other doll in Jenny's arms. She remained still as death, and his heart died a little more in turn. He changed back into his pyjamas, returned to his bed, and pretended to sleep, so no one would disturb his grief.

Familiar voices soon shattered his peace, but he kept up his charade as he heard them call out his and Jenny's names.

The Wainrights had arrived.

The parents were chastened for their volume. Clarette apologised, but Thomas suspected she only did so because it was expected of her; he knew her well enough to pick up the veiled annoyance behind her words. He almost smiled.

He heard the parents quietly beg their daughter to wake up -- and where Thomas had failed, the parents succeeded. She didn't stay awake long, but the doctor proclaimed that she was likely to recover now, was just sleeping rather than comatose.

Thomas let out a small sigh of relief. He could move on now, knowing Jenny was all right -- that he hadn't failed Declan completely.

Clarette nearly startled Thomas when she suddenly spoke to him -- he was glad his back was to her. "Thomas? Are you awake? Thomas --"

"I would let him sleep," the doctor admonished. "He hasn't had much of it since waking up here."

Thomas felt her hand brush his hair from his brow, then lay that hand on his shoulder. "My poor Tumulus." There was a quiet sob, and she pulled away. 

The touch had soothed him some, enough that he was able to truly sleep a while.

~ * * * ~  
He woke with a start, the change in sunlight suggesting an hour or so had passed. Jenny's parents sat at her bedside, heads in their arms, sleeping, doubtless exhausted by their long journey and the stress.

It was the perfect time to go.

He couldn't bear the thought of talking to Clarette face to face, seeing the pain in her eyes from the loss of her brother, and from the fear for her child. Not knowing how he'd failed her on both counts, failed to get Declan out alive or protect Jenny. And really, once Clarette was awake, who knew if he could work up the nerve again to go -- not if he had to actually say the word, "Goodbye." He wished he could kiss her brow in farewell, though, and Jenny's too, but didn't dare risk waking them. He quietly changed into the donated clothes again, picked up Sybbie's package and Jimmy's lighter, and walked out.

It would take days to walk there (since he had no money for a train or a bus), but he _would_ get to Downton and leave the gifts. He'd see his home of many long years, one last time. And then he would just crawl into the woods and die, like an animal -- his heart broken, he was living on borrowed time as it was.

As he walked along a deserted street, heading for the train station, oblivious to the pain of his body (which steadily grew worse as the pain relievers wore off), the wind blew something wadded up, straight to his feet. Reflexively, he plucked it from his shoe.

It was a ten-pound note.

Perhaps his guardian angel was annoyed at the idea of how ling it would be before his end, and wanted him to hurry things along.

Pocketing the note, he headed for the train station, now intending to buy a ticket rather than follow the tracks all the way to the station nearest Downton. He almost felt a little cheered, now that he didn't have to make the arduous trek on foot. He'd be back well before Christmas Eve for sure, now! They could tell Sybbie the gift was from Father Christmas!

Going as far as he could by train, he took a taxi to the Grantham Arms, and bought a bottle of his favorite (cheap) wine. He owed Declan a toast, in case he didn't see his beloved on the other side. (Besides, freezing to death was easier when plied with alcohol, tricking the body into thinking it was warm.) He had the bottle opened for him, and drank sparingly on the walk to Downton, needing the illusion early as he trudged through the snow

He left the package by the door, the lighter atop it, then made his way to the woods, drinking deeply as he went. His mission accomplished, it didn't matter if his steps grew wobblier by the moment. So long as he made it a ways into the woods, he probably wouldn't be found until he was frozen solid. His extremities already felt as numb as his soul.

He barely made it past the treeline before tripping over a root. His arm and ribs flared in agony, but he managed to contain the accompanying scream. He rolled onto his back, held the bottle wordlessly aloft in silent salute to Declan, and guzzled the rest of the purple liquid. False warmth burned through him, making him drowsy; he would gladly give into it, but there was one last thing to do. Smashing the bottle against a nearby rock, he awkwardly worked the neck into the hand in the cast, then used the jagged end to cut a deep line in his wrist. He wasn't sure he got much of the vein, but it bled, and he was too drunk to do better.

It would have to be enough.


	6. Death isn't Invited - Part Two: Grief Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy and the rest of Downton is there for Thomas in his grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genres/Themes for this Chapter:** Introspection, Character Study, Grief, Angst, Loss, Depression, Falling in Love  
>  **Prominent Characters in this Chapter:** Thomas, Jimmy, Lord Grantham, Carson, Lady Mary, Tom Branson, Lady Mary, Isobel Crawley, and a few OCs (including the Wainright family)  
>  **Relationships Featured in this Chapter:** Friends: Thomas / Jimmy, Thomas / the Wainrights, Jimmy / the Wainrights, Thomas / Tom, Thomas / Carson, Thomas / Mary, (nominal) Thomas / Isobel. Romantic: (nominal) Thomas / Jimmy  
>  **Length for this Chapter:** about 8520 words

As Jimmy held the tureen for His Lordship, Isis started barking from the next room, startling him so badly, he almost spilled the soup. She kept barking, frantically.

"James, go see what's bothering Isis, would you, please?" Lord Grantham asked.

Suspecting that His Lordship was a little nervous about having Jimmy serve him a hot liquid at the moment, Jimmy handed the soup to a scowling Carson, then followed the sound of the dog.

She was at the front door, scratching at it. Worried there was a prowler about, Jimmy opened the door, careful to keep Isis from slipping out as well, and glanced around, shuddering with the cold. He stepped out -- and almost immediately tripped over a box beside the door. A glint of gold atop the package caught his eye: it was a lighter. His first thought was of Thomas, but he quickly dismissed the idea -- Thomas would have called first and come in when he arrived, and it wasn't the all-too-familiar object belonging to his best friend anyway. Still, it _was_ familiar ....

Isis was still barking. Fearing the wrath of Carson, Jimmy hurriedly gathered the package and the lighter and slipped back inside, careful not to let Isis out. Setting the box down, ignoring that the lighter slid off to the floor, he tried calming the dog, to no avail.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, James, just take her out!" Lord Grantham commanded, coming towards them, Carson behind him with eyes flashing. 

"I thought there might be someone out there, Your Lordship, and after the last time ...."

Grantham looked ashen at that. "Fair point."

"And then I found _that_ outside," Jimmy added, gesturing to the box with his chin, since his arms were still full of rambunctious dog.

"What is it?" Grantham asked, taking over Isis while Carson picked up the box and glanced at the tag.

"Why, it's for Lady Sybbie!" Carson exclaimed.

Jimmy glanced about. "There was a lighter, too -- there!" He picked it up, and flipped it over. His heart thudded in his chest when he saw the inscription.

_That_ was why it looked familiar!

"James?" Carson asked commandingly.

"Th ... this belonged to my father! Look, his name is on it! He pawned it when I was little! But how ...?" And then he realised his first instinct might not have been off after all. There had been something for Sybbie, and something for him. What friend did they have in common?

" _Thomas!_ " Jimmy exclaimed, hurrying out the door, this time taking no care about Isis. She rushed out after him, then ahead, and he gladly followed, grateful for her help.

Thomas was blue-lipped and unconscious when they found him, a broken bottle of wine beside him, the snow red all around. Jimmy had a flash of deja-vu, but the last time he'd found Thomas blue-lipped and unconscious, at least the man had been shivering! Now he was still as death!

And then Jimmy noted the wrist, peaking out from a dark coat sleeve: shirt and skin alike, coated in bright red, like the snow beneath it. But wine turned shirts purple, if anything, and didn't stick to skin ....

It wasn't wine. 

Was ... was Thomas _really_ dead this time ...?

" _Thomas!_ " Jimmy sobbed, feeling for a pulse.

There. Faint, but Thomas had one! And there was a white wisp of breath. He was icy to the touch, though, even worse than last time ....

Trembling with relief and worry both, Jimmy undid the sling cradling the cast and used it as a tourniquet for the man's wrist. Then, careful of the man's injuries, Jimmy hoisted Thomas over his shoulder (no mean feat, seeing as Thomas was of a larger build).

Trying to ignore the snow getting into his shoes and soaking his trousers, Jimmy stumbled his way back to the door, praying he didn't fall, especially with Isis dancing excitedly around him. Carson and Lord Grantham had followed him out -- and Mr Branson as well, doubtless having wondered what was keeping the rest of them. Branson, a bit more spry than the other men, caught up with Jimmy first, but Jimmy insisted on carrying Thomas alone (because the fireman-carry was less awkward than it would be to carry Thomas between the two of them -- Jimmy certainly did not feel any sort of possessiveness).

By the time Jimmy got Thomas inside, shoes and coat stripped, and settled under an afghan (and Isis) by the library fireplace, Carson had finished ringing Dr Clarkson, and the ladies were trying to come in and investigate the commotion. Grantham proved himself useful for once by shooing them back to the dining room and keeping them there (which had the added bonus of keeping His Lordship from getting underfoot as well). Carson, blessedly, went to wait by the door for Clarkson.

"I'll go get some bandages and more blankets," Branson suggested, hurrying off.

Sitting beside Thomas, Jimmy rubbed his friend's hands, one after the other, again and again, praying for a better sign of life than the faint rise and fall of his chest. "Thomas, you really have to stop running off into the woods when it's cold out!" No reaction. What would it take to wake him from his "Sleeping Beauty"-like sleep?

Jimmy remembered the kiss, then, the one that had caused the terrible rift between them. How Thomas seemed to have fancied himself a prince in a fairytale. How Jimmy had actually _enjoyed_ it until he woke up enough to realise he was kissing a man -- a forbidden act, or so he'd always been told. He'd never even let himself contemplate doing such a thing -- it was wrong ....

Until Clarette had convincingly posed that it _wasn't_ wrong. Not that it was okay that Thomas had snuck up on Jimmy and kissed him without asking! But ... well, Jimmy understood that Thomas, lonely and unable to express his feelings for fear of arrest, still probably would not have done it if O'Brien hadn't pretended to speak on Jimmy's behalf and convinced Thomas that Jimmy's feelings were mutual. Thomas had since shown contrition, regret, and restraint, and though it had taken time, Jimmy had completely forgiven him. And really, hadn't O'Brien worked Jimmy up too, convincing him he had to punish Thomas, rather than just let things go?

And after Thomas had run away and returned, and Jimmy had been overcome with jealousy towards Declan, Jimmy had come to realise that it was, first and foremost (thanks, in part, to O'Brien), the very belief that it was wrong that had caused Jimmy to become enraged over the kiss -- a belief he no longer held. Jimmy had since found himself wondering what might have happened between them in a world where Thomas _wouldn't_ have had to hide his feelings. One where he could have felt safe asking how Jimmy felt, and Jimmy wouldn't have felt he _absolutely_ had to rebuff the man's advances, for fear of losing his freedom and damning his soul.

No one had ever shown Jimmy such patience, care, even undying devotion, as Thomas. And now that Jimmy no longer believed the "Homosexuality is Evil!" rhetoric, he was free to admit, at least to himself: Thomas was as attractive as he was kind (to Jimmy, anyway).

Over the past year or so, thinking about Thomas -- his body, his touch -- had made Jimmy's body stir in ways that he'd at first tried to deny, and then just ignore. But now, driven by fear of losing Thomas, Jimmy allowed himself, for once, to dwell on it. To fan the fire and let his imagination carry him away. To think of what he would lose any chance of, if Thomas died now.

He realised that women had never elicited quite the same level of reaction -- that Thomas made him feel things he'd never even realised he _could_ feel. It was as though what he'd once thought to be the sensation of lust had really proved to be nothing but a mild, passing attraction. He yearned to hold Thomas again, and be held in turn. He yearned to feel Thomas touch him in ways he never had been touched before, and other places with far more intimacy.

And it wasn't just lust he felt for Thomas. He missed Thomas when the man was away, hated when anyone else monopolised the man's time, and the idea of Thomas dying terrified him beyond reason. That was love, wasn't it?

Yes. There was no denying it anymore. Somewhen, he'd fallen in love with Thomas.

Thomas couldn't die not knowing that.

Heart racing again, Jimmy listened carefully for footsteps as best he could above the pounding inside him. Taking a deep breath, he brought his lips towards those of his Sleeping Beauty -- and stopped. Thomas might have loved him once, but he loved someone else now. This wasn't a fairytale ....

Drawing back and studying Thomas, Jimmy thought the blue had faded completely now, and the red had diminished. Checking the wound, the bleeding had slowed to a near-stop. Jimmy had to believe all that meant Thomas was recovering.

"How is he?" a blanket-laden Branson asked, scaring Jimmy half out of his wits. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you!" He added, setting down the pile.

"His colour's coming back," Jimmy reported as he began to wrap the wrist tightly with gauze. The surprise had, thankfully, doused the fire of his lust (effectively putting a stop to the tenting in his trousers). He worried, though, that Branson had seen the attempt at a kiss, and studied the man in his peripheral.

If Branson had seen the attempt, he showed no sign -- no shock or disgust or wariness. "Good, good. Why didn't he come inside, I wonder? And what happened to him? How is it one arm is in a cast, but the other is freshly bleeding?"

A terrible thought occurred to Jimmy. "You don't think he's done something to make him a fugitive again, do you?"

Branson grew alarmed. "Maybe Carson shouldn't have called Clarkson ...." 

Jimmy was gratified that Branson seemed ready to protect Thomas, whatever had happened. "Well, we do need a doctor for him. And really, Clarkson is loyal to Downton -- I don't think he'd turn Thomas in." It was more of a hope than a proclamation; Jimmy praying it was true -- and debating whether they should hide Thomas after all, just in case ...

Sooner rather than later, they heard Carson's booming voice, beckoning Clarkson to follow him.

"Well, this is a bit of deja-vu," Clarkson remarked, beginning his exam. "Do we know how he got this cast, or the injury to his wrist? Has he any other injuries?"

Before Jimmy could tell about the wine bottle, the phone rang, Carson hurrying to answer it.

"Downton Abbey, Carson speaking. Why, yes, Mrs Wainright, he _is_ here! Dr Clarkson is seeing to him now. Do you know how he was injured?"

Carson grew ashen, sitting heavily on the nearby chair. "Good heavens! I'm so sorry, madam ... Yes, yes, please do -- I'm certain his Lordship would be quite willing to receive you early. We'll see you then. Goodbye." He hung up the phone. "Mr Baker is ... dead. A few days ago, a man broke into the clock shop, shot Mr Baker, set the shop on fire, and abducted Miss Jenny. Our Mr Barrow gave chase, and the abductor and an accomplice beat Mr Barrow before help arrived. They broke his arm and bruised two ribs, and gave him a slight concussion. They also struck Miss Jenny, with the butt of a pistol, the doctor thinks -- she woke up from a coma this morning. It seems Mr Barrow snuck out of the hospital while the Wainwrights slept at Jenny's side -- didn't leave a message or anything. They must wait a few days until they're certain Jenny is all right, and then they'll come here. But why would Barrow run off like that? And why bring presents for Sybbie and Jimmy, and then just _go_ , without a word?"

Jimmy had a pretty good idea.

"Well, if this wound on his wrist is what I suspect, then seems very likely he's suffering from severe depression," Clarkson replied. "He's lost his home and his ... friend--" Jimmy guessed Clarkson understood just what kind of a friend Baker was "--in a horribly tragic way, and likely feels survivor's guilt. The journey here was probably meant as a bit of closure, but depression doesn't lend itself to being sociable."

"He drank some wine, I think," Jimmy chimed in. "I saw a bottle beside him in the snow -- broken. I think that's how he ...." He gestured to the wrist, which Clarkson was gingerly unbandaging.

Clarkson nodded, sighing. "Mr Barrow doubtless knows full well from his medical training that alcohol is dangerous when paired with cold weather, too. Cutting his wrist might even just have been an afterthought as he just lay down in the woods to die, like an animal."

"He was the happiest we'd ever seen him, since going to work at that shop," Carson observed heavily; Jimmy wondered if the man had guessed at all at the nature of the relationship Thomas had had with Baker, or if he was steering clear of such thoughts even now.

Jimmy wished Thomas could see the pitying look Carson gave the man now. Carson had softened much towards Thomas since The Incident, but as Jimmy understood it, before then, the two men hadn't even been friends. Jimmy wished Thomas could see that people cared about him after all.

"I would not leave him unattended for the time being -- not until I'm satisfied that he's not a danger to himself," The doctor went on.

"You can rely on us," Carson assured him.

The doctor finished looking Thomas over and declared him to be stable, in "as good of health as can be expected, given all that's happened." As Clarkson began sewing up the cut, with Thomas barely rousing, they all agreed Thomas should stay where he was until he woke of his own accord. Carson himself brought a cot up for Jimmy to sleep beside Thomas, and a set of pyjamas for each of them. (Jimmy managed to keep his thoughts professional as they got the unconscious Thomas changed.) After adjusting the blankets over Thomas in an astonishingly paternal gesture, Carson bid them goodnight.

As he lay on the cot, Jimmy took Thomas by the hand. He tried not to think of how Thomas might stay in Downton now, that they might have a chance to be together, with Baker gone. How evil, how awful, could Jimmy be?? He should be broken-hearted for Thomas! He told himself he was -- he was sickened that he'd had those other thoughts at all. This night wasn't about him or his wants, but what Thomas had lost. He needed to be a friend, and nothing more.

He told himself that holding a friend's hand was a natural, comforting thing to do. He didn't believe it, though, and so, feeling guilty, tried to let go.

Thomas gripped his hand.

Jimmy bolted upright, tightening his grip in turn. "Thomas! Are you awake?"

Thomas moaned, eyes fluttering open. "Jimmy? What am I .... Oh." Confusion had given way to dejection. It was hard to tell for sure in the firelight, but his eyes seemed to be glittering.

Jimmy tightened his grip even more. "I'm so sorry about Declan, Thomas." Jimmy was surprised to realise he really _did_ feel sorry, wasn't just saying it because it was the right thing to do. Baker had made Thomas happy where Jimmy had failed, and was a kind man. Jimmy fervently wished now that he'd been kind to the man in turn, in gratitude. If he could wish the man back to life, he would.

The tears spilled down his friend's face now, confirming Jimmy's suspicion. Jimmy felt his own tears mirror them as he wrapped his arms around Thomas, who returned the embrace so tightly, Jimmy thought his own ribs might break. Jimmy had no idea how long he held Thomas, the man soaking his shirt with grief -- and he didn't care. Whatever Thomas wanted or needed, Jimmy would do or be. Not because he hoped to earn affection from Thomas -- he didn't. He accepted that he'd had his chance and missed it.

This was for Thomas, not himself.

If he told himself that enough, maybe it would even be true. Maybe he would erase that selfish, hopeful, opportunistic monster inside him.

~ * * * ~  
The morning after, Thomas was better physically, just a mild case of frostbite (and the broken arm, the cut, and a bit of weakness from bloodloss, of course), but he seemed even worse mentally -- downright catatonic. He was paler than usual, his cheeks and eyes sunken -- he looked something like the corpse he seemed to wish he was. Carson decided, with His Lordship's permission, that Thomas should continue to stay in the library, where there was living going on, rather than sequestered away. Carson also (somewhat shockingly) ordered Jimmy to stay with Thomas all day and try to coax the man out of himself. After a fruitless morning endeavouring to do just that (Thomas wasn't even interested in having a cigarette!), Jimmy rang for help, getting Alfred to play babysitter while Jimmy appealed to Lady Mary, Branson, and Mrs Crawley, all of whom knew something of what Thomas was going through.

Branson visited first, taking Alfred's chair beside the couch, while Jimmy sat on the back of the couch itself.

"I'm sorry about your Mr Baker, Thomas," Branson began. "Forgive the intrusion, but ... am I right in thinkin' that ... well, that he meant to you what Sybil meant to me?"

Thomas nodded faintly, the gesture, though small, shaking loose a tear.

"Well, yeh know that _I_ pretty well know how yer feelin', then. I know yeh want to just ... _give up_. I know the last thing yeh want to do is talk, and that you wish everyone would just go away, leave you be. I also know that leaving yeh alone is the last thing any of us _should_ do. And it's not just because keepin' yeh company -- keepin' yeh _alive_ \-- is just the 'right thing ta do', either. It's not just pity. It's because we care about you and truly don't want to lose you. And keepin' yeh here, howevermuch you might hate it now, has the added benefit of giving you time to find other things to live for. And you will, Thomas. It won't make the things you lived for before mean any less, either. Being happy isn't a betrayal of those we've lost. They'd _want_ us to continue on and be happy."

Thomas didn't budge an inch, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Branson sighed, patting Thomas on the shoulder. "But it also won't happen overnight. When yer ready, I'm here for you -- like you were for me when Sybil .... Well. It helped me to talk about Sybil, to share my stories of her with you, and hear your many fine stories of her. I'd love to hear more about Declan, when yer up to it."

"So would I," Lady Mary chimed in, coming in with Mrs Crawley and sitting on the couch across the way.

Mrs Crawley brought a wooden chair to the opposite end of the couch Thomas convalesced on, near his feet. (Heaven forbid Lady Mary, first in the room, should think of doing that herself, if it meant getting in close quarters with a servant, Jimmy reflected with irritation.)

"I could tell you my own stories of Sybil!" Mary offered with her usual forced cheer. "And of Matthew -- he liked you, you know. He told me about you ran across each other in the trenches."

Jimmy didn't let like to think ill of Mr Crawley, but the way Mary spot, Jimmy couldn't help but imagine her and her husband having a laugh about him lowering himself to keeping company with a servant. As it was, Jimmy suspected she was puzzled by the fact that her husband had liked Thomas, and even though Jimmy would have been similarly perplexed a little over a year ago, her air irritated him now. He suddenly wished that he hadn't asked Mary for help: she didn't have a sincere bone in her body, save maybe for when she was angry. Someone who was constantly letting the world know that she was bored silly with life was not one to convince anyone _else_ to stay alive ....

Mrs Crawley, of course, didn't have her daughter-in-laws airs. "Oh, you served with my son?" she smiled.

Thomas surprised Jimmy by replying. "Mr Crawley was kind to me in the trenches. Just as Lady Sybil was, when we worked together." His unfocused gaze seemed focused now -- if only on the past. "We had tea together one evening, Mr Crawley and me. Talked about the gossip from Downton."

Smiling fondly, Mrs Crawley laid a hand over Thomas'; Jimmy was gratified to see Thomas at least _try_ to smile back. "I'm glad you were both able to remind each other of home."

Thomas nodded faintly. "And Sybil and I _usually_ had tea together, at the hospital -- us and Edward," he went on, addressing Branson. "She was so gentle with him, so kind ...."

"Edward?" Mary prompted, shooting Branson a look. Jimmy knew what she was thinking, that Sybil had had a dalliance with a patient. He supposed it was to Mary's credit that she seemed worried for Branson, but really, did she always have to assume the worst of people?? He'd lost track of the number of times he'd wanted to dump a tureen over her head at dinner, she was typically so unpleasant ....

"He was a soldier blinded in the war," Thomas explained. "We were helping him learn to get around, until ... u-until he _died_."

Thomas had grown somber again. Jimmy noted Mrs Crawley tightening her grip on his hand, as if she could keep Thomas there with them mentally by holding on physically, and he appreciated it. He himself laid a hand on hus friend's shoulder, and was heartened to see Thomas glance up with gratitude, even as he still seemed unbearably sad.

Thomas had told Jimmy about Edward once, and Jimmy had suspected that the man had been more than just a friend. Jimmy had been ashamed of the feeling that had risen in him back then, thinking it was knee-jerk disgust, but it occurred to him now what the emotion _really_ was: _jealousy_.

He was no less angry with himself for feeling that instead.

"Sybil mentioned Edward ta me -- she told me how devastated yeh both were when he died," Branson remarked. "She always did speak well of you. She would have been pleased to see you looking after Sybbie as you have. Especially with Nanny West."

"Yes! Like Carson always looked after us!" Mary weighed in. "Carson will eventually retire, though -- it'd be nice for Sybbie and George to grow up with a familiar face, the way my sisters and I did."

Jimmy fought back his rising tide of anger. Did the silly twit have to make everything about herself and _her_ needs? Did she really think the reason Thomas should live on was to play parent to her son because she couldn't be bothered to do so herself? Did she not realise Thomas had gone on to become a man of business, his own master?

"Of course, you might wish to go back to clock-making rather than back into service," Branson pointed out, seeming a little frustrated with Mary himself, "but Sybbie's always asking when you'll be back to visit, and I'm always tellin' her that I hope it's soon, that I miss you too. And I know when she's old enough, she'd love to hear your stories about your days with her mother ...."

"I ... I've missed all of you, too," Thomas admitted, "but ...." He slipped his hand free of Mrs Crawley and curled into a fist, his lips starting to tremble. She gripped his knee instead.

"We can't replace ... what you've lost," Mary said with a surprising amount of tact. She'd suddenly grown morose herself; Jimmy thought maybe she was thinking of Matthew now, and hurting. "That empty space will always be there, always be painful; I wish we could say otherwise. But then ... then, one day, you find yourself dusting off a memory that _doesn't_ make you want to die. Something that makes you smile and want to see the future you once dreamed about together. And other days, you realise that you've come across a future you _hadn't_ dreamed of, but is still worth seeing. And you realise that ... you're seeing it _for_ them. Bringing them into a future they couldn't have been a part of otherwise."

Thomas nodded vaguely, clearly considering her words.

Jimmy took back his ill thoughts about the woman.

"Well." Suddenly Mary was all business, save for a slight glittering to her eyes. "You've been through quite an ordeal -- I'm sure you could use some rest. Come along, Branson, Cousin Isobel ...." 

She hurried out. Mrs Crawley patted his leg, offering her condolences and asking him to not be afraid to ask for anything, before following her daughter-in-law.

Branson lingered a moment, squeezing Thomas' shoulder. "Thank you for the gift for Sybbie, whatever it is. I hope you'll stay at Downton long enough to see her open it." He then nodded to Jimmy in farewell, and left.

"Thank you for mine, too! However did you find it?" Jimmy asked, pulling the lighter out of his pocket.

Thomas shrugged. "Jenny wheedled me into a pawn shop, and there it was."

"Amazing! Well, I'm beyond grateful -- all of my parents things had to be sold to cover their debts, and it still wasn't enough. To have something of my father's again ...."

Thomas nodded. "What I wouldn't give to have something of Declan's ...."

Not having any idea of what he could possibly say to comfort Thomas, he just took the man's hand, and they sat together in silence for a while.

The silence growing painfully awkward, Jimmy was pondering what to do next, when Thomas spoke. "I ... _appreciate_ that everyone cares so much, but ... it's a lot harder for someone like _me_ to build a new life, when the average person and the _law_ would prefer I didn't even _exist_. No one's wishing Lady Mary dead -- save maybe her rivals. Well, and Lady Edith." Thomas couldn't even manage a slight quirk of the lip at his own joke. "I'm just ... so _tired_ of feeling like the best I can do is keep my nose above water. I'm not just drowning in _grief_ , Jimmy, it's _all_ of it. An ocean of _hate_."

Jimmy shouldn't have been shocked. He'd hated Thomas once himself, after all, and had wished the man would disappear. But now, from this side of things, the idea of wishing anyone dead for how God or Nature had made them ... it sickened him. It sickened him to know he'd thought anything remotely like it. For anyone to have to _live_ like that every day, wondering how someone would react if they learned the truth about you ... hearing strangers talk about their hate for people like you ... to hear, all the time, that you were a sinner, a monster, that you should be imprisoned, that you should _die_ ... well, no wonder Thomas wanted to do just that! How could Jimmy convince him that a life like that _was_ worth keeping?

_It probably didn't help that you were cold to him lately,_ his inner Clarette pointed out. He resolved to do better and moved on with his train of thought -- he didn't have time to be wallowing in guilt (even if he deserved to).

He thought back to his own grief, from the loss of his parents. How had he climbed out of that morass? He honestly couldn't remember! He supposed it was a matter of ... _habit_. He had duties to fulfill, obligations, and in having to get up every day to meet those obligations, there was no _time_ to _die_ \-- no time to prepare, or even think about it. He was just going through the motions at first, but somewhen along the way, living became a habit that he was too lazy to break.

And then there were the stories. There was some serial in the paper that he just had to know how it ended. But before that one ended, there was another one that caught his eye, and that one went on after the first one ended. Then there was another one ....

"Maybe start small?" Jimmy suggested. "Find a little thing that makes you smile, a little ... _flotsam_ to hold onto. And then maybe you'll come across another bit, and another, until you have a raft ...."

He glanced at a magazine which Alfred had brought up and left on the coffee table: _The Strand_. "You like Sherlock Holmes, right?" he asked, picking it up and searching for the latest Arthur Conan Doyle story. Finding it, he began to read. He wasn't sure Thomas was listening, but he was determined to keep going. When that story was done, he read another, and another, eventually moving on to books of short stories. He only paused when members of the house, servants and family alike, came in, fairly frequently, to check on Thomas, offering condolences and trying to let him know he was cared for.

Other than tearing up when Mrs Hughes came in and wordlessly hugged him, Thomas only nodded or shrugged or shook his head when spoken to. He didn't react to the stories, but at least he didn't tell Jimmy to stop. Even when a worried-looking Bradley brought up some dinner for them, Jimmy continued reading around mouthfuls -- and finally earned a verbal response from Thomas.

"Jimmy, how many times must I tell you, don't talk with your mouth full ...? It's disgusting."

"Sorry, Thomas!" Jimmy grinned.

"I could read!" Bradley offered; Jimmy reluctantly handed the book over, demanding it back when he'd finished eating.

The next few days were more of the same, Jimmy reading while Thomas silently listened. Mrs. Hughes, bringing tea the second day, noted Jimmy was getting hoarse, and insisted on spelling him or having others do so, for at least ten minutes an hour. At mealtimes, Alfred or Bradley, whoever brought the tray, would take over. The second and third evenings, the Batses joined in, staying for a few hours each time, Anna and Bates each taking turns reading. But still, Thomas barely spoke or showed any sign of life.

~ * * * ~  
Jimmy was awakened early on the fourth day -- by the doorbell, not Alfred or Carson. Mrs Wainright was waiting on the other side, eyes red and puffy, a quieter-and-more-somber-than-usual Lucas holding a sleeping Jenny behind her.

"Oh, Jimmy!" Mrs Wainright cried, throwing her arms around him, sobbing. His heart broke all over again, for her and her family.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Wainright ," he whispered, a little surprised at how easily his own tears welled up again.

She pulled away, nodding and wiping her eyes -- and smacking him lightly on the arm. "That's _Clarette_ to you; how many times must I tell you? But thank you. Where is Tumulus?" She asked as she stepped inside.

Jimmy led her into the library, then wondered if he should have -- Thomas was still asleep. (Or was pretending to be, anyway -- Jimmy had learned to tell the difference ....)

_Clarette_ hurried over and sat beside Thomas, studying him. She looked horrified when she spotted the bandage on his wrist, reaching out a shaking hand to touch it, then using that hand to stifle a sob. A moment later, she composed herself, tucking his blanket in around him.

"Oh, Tummy. I'll let you be for now, but you can't sleep forever." She wiped a damp lock of hair from his brow, then kissed it, then stood, turning to Jimmy. "We should greet his Lordship -- you'll stay with him? I'm not giving him a chance to slip away again!"

"Yes -- let me just get Carson first!" The man would have a heart attack if the Wainrights just barged into the dining room unannounced!

As if Jimmy conjured the man, Carson came into the room. If Carson was surprised or flustered by the surprise of guests already in the house, he hid it well, smoothly greeting them. He lead the Wainrights away to a room (one that had been waiting for them days), leaving Jimmy alone with Thomas again.

"They're gone," he told Thomas.

The man sighed.

"She's right, you know."

Thomas didn't reply. Jimmy sat on the cot and took his hand, but Thomas still didn't react -- at first.

Then, almost exasperated, Thomas asked, "Why are you all trying so hard to keep me here? You heard Clarkson the other night -- my home and business are gone, and the person I loved is dead. I told you this world doesn't want me! Why prolong my suffering?"

Jimmy's heart twinged. "Because we're selfish, I guess. We don't want to lose you any more than you wanted to lose Declan. And while it may not be your dream home or job, Thomas, you still have Downton -- and everyone in it. That's not nothing. _We_ can be the world -- just ignore the rest! If there's a Heaven, it'll still be there fifty years from now. And if there is no Heaven, what would Declan want you to have? Fifty more years of life, or nothing?"

Thomas wouldn't meet his eyes as he replied, bitterly, "Fifty years of torture, you mean? Do you really think there's _no_ fate _worse_ than death?"

Jimmy felt a flash of anger, but managed to keep most of it out of his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise our company was so torturous."

Thomas did look up then, regret and apology written sincerely across his features. "Jimmy, that's not what ..." he gestured vaguely.

Jimmy's anger dissipated as quickly as it rose. "I know. I also know that you have things harder than most men. But I know something you don't seem to believe, even after Branson and Lady Mary told you: _grief fades_. I know it doesn't feel like it possibly could, but it does. When I lost my parents, it felt like the world should stop, that it shouldn't go on without them, but it did -- and eventually, I realised that _I_ needed to as well. That that's why we exist: to live, and for me to do anything less was to spit on the memory of my parents, who _gave_ me this life."

Thomas was thoughtful a moment, the gave a rueful smile. "I'm not sure I feel gratitude to my parents. In fact, my father cursed my existence before kicking me out."

"So live to _spite_ him, then! And live to remember Mr Baker, so he's here in this world a little longer, through _you!_ " Jimmy had taken Thomas by the hand, cradling it in both of his. On impulse, he lifted the hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles, and then rest his cheek against it, closing his eyes. "Just ... _don't leave. Please._ "

"Listen to him, Tumulus!"

Clarette's voice startled Jimmy, but he didn't let go -- they were lucky it was her and not someone else sho had walked in. The others might turn a blind eye to the fact that Thomas was gay, but that tolerance might only go so far ....

Clarette stormed around the couch and sat on the back. "Listen, because I want you to be Jenny's godfather," she continued. "Declan originally was, but he's gone. You can't do quite as much as a godfather when you're dead."

Thomas laughed mirthlessly. "Isn't the duty of a godfather to help raise the child in the faith? Even if I were knowledgeable about that stuff -- and I'm not very -- I'm thinking no priest in the world would approve of _me_ in the role."

"Pfft! I never said _what_ god. Did you forget? Lucas and I are _pagan_ , Thomas. Any god that would burn a soul eternally for mutually loving and consenting physical relationship is a god I want no part of. No, I simply mean godfather as in you'd be her guardian if something happens to us."

"Jenny almost _died_ because of me!" Thomas protested, finally showing a sign of life. Jimmy wasn't sure whether to be cheered by this, though.

Clarette scowled. "She almost died because some berk broke into your home in the middle of the night! That could just as easily have happened in our own home! It's not on you that he got outside with her and hit her!"

Thomas paled. He focused on his blanket, picking at a thread as he mumbled, "I guess the police didn't tell you everything." Haltingly, he told them of his and Jenny's encounter at a pub with one of his assailants. "So he was there specifically because of me. And then there's the fact that the man's accomplice was Hardwood's chauffeur!"

"What?!" Jimmy hadn't really known any of the details of the attack before now. "But he was in jail!"

"Not anymore, apparently."

"Hardwood?" Clarette asked, confused.

Thomas looked stricken; Jimmy suddenly remembered their conversation from months ago, where he'd advised Thomas not to tell the woman about Hardwood. Thomas looked at him helplessly now.

"I'll tell her," Jimmy assured the man, launching into as brief and undetailed an account of the incident as he could manage.

Clarette took Thomas by the shoulder during the telling, her grip going white-knuckled and her eyes wide with horror. "Good!" she growled when Jimmy spoke of Hardwood's fatal accident. She then turned to Thomas -- and smacked him upside the head. "That's for not telling me sooner that you almost _died_! But as far as the attack goes, if you think this 'chauffeur seeking vengeance' business proves you're an unfit parent, you have another think coming! Any evil man could find some ridiculous excuse to hurt anyone, anytime! Do you think I haven't ever been threatened? That Lucas hasn't? One man a couple years ago claimed that Lucas stole one of his songs and shot at him -- should Jenny be taken away from _us_ because of that? That pub you mentioned -- did Declan ever bother to mention that he and the pub's owner didn't get along, because Declan bought the space that man originally wanted for the pub?"

Shocked, Thomas shook his head.

"If he'd thought to tell you, you wouldn't have taken Jenny there, and maybe none of this would have happened. Or maybe Hardwood's man would have found you some other way. We can't know how every path will turn out, how every person will react, much less what people will turn out to be _insane_! But Jenny loves you as much as she ever did Declan -- and so do I!" The last words came out choked as anger gave way to tears.

Features again etched with apology, as well as grief, Thomas got to his knees on the seat and embraced Clarette, who cried into his heavily tousled black mane.

"I ... I almost didn't ... didn't even _try_ to save her," Thomas confessed, his own tears flowing heavily now. "I almost just ... stayed with Declan. And I-I wish I _had_!"

This, Jimmy realised then, was at least part of why Thomas wanted to die: guilt was tearing him in two directions. He'd abandoned the man he loved, and nearly abandoned a helpless child in his care. Those thoughts had doubtless been festering all this while, what with him stubbornly refusing to _talk_ about it ....

Clarette sighed, pulling Thomas close. "Do you think the choice between Jenny and Lucas and Bridgette would come easily for _me_?" she asked gently.

_Bridgette?_ Jimmy wondered, thinking it was probably best not to ask.

Her question clearly hit home for Thomas, who dared to meet her eyes now. He looked ... surprised, maybe. And grateful for forgiveness.

"You're out of excuses, Tummy," Clarette remarked with a smirk, stroking his hair. "So what do you say? Will you stick around this life and be Jenny's godfather?"

"What about Edgar?"

_Edgar?_ Jimmy wondered.

Clarette shook her head. "Bridgette is already her godmother, so that'd be a waste of a household. Besides, if anything should happen to Bridgette, it'd likely happen to Edgar as well. And what if something should happen to all four of us -- a train wreck or something?" 

Thomas sighed, laying his head against her. "Fine. But you owe me."

"Fine," Clarette agreed. "Interest compounds the longer you stay alive to collect," she added teasingly. "Now, come see Jenny. You too, Jimmy."

Jimmy obeyed, not sure if Carson would approve of him intruding on the family gathering, but also not willing to argue with Clarette.

Jenny, ensconced in a bed in the Lavender Room, tried to get up to hug Thomas, but her father stayed her. Sybbie, who'd been playing tea party on the bed with her, had no such restrictions, and collided with him with a force that seemed to knock the wind from him. He knelt down to give her a proper hug. Jimmy hoped Thomas saw the child as yet another reason to stick around -- for life in general, and at Downton in particular. Taking Sybbie's hand, Thomas led her back to the bed, where he hugged a tearful Jenny as fiercely as he could. Jimmy felt some of his own tension ease a little.

As she hugged him, she noted Jimmy, and waved a beckoning hand, calling his name. A little surprised by her invitation, he came over and hugged her too -- and was somehow wrangled, along with Thomas, Branson, and the Wainrights, into joining the tea party. Jenny fell asleep mid-pour, Sybbie around the same time. Jenny's parents dozed beside her. Branson picked up Sybbie, to take her back to the nursery. Jimmy watched it all with a mix of envy and fondness, tinged slightly with sorrow, remembering his parents. He hoped some day Thomas could similarly find some pleasantness in memories of Baker, maybe when he watched Jenny play ....

As Jimmy and Thomas re-situated themselves in the library, (Thomas looking to be in a little better spirits), Jimmy thought of the lighter, feeling it in his pocket and remembering how Thomas wished he'd had something of Baker's. Jimmy held on to the thought, and when someone spelled him for a break later, he sought out Clarette with an idea ....

Clarette looked harried when he found her, Jenny sleeping beside her.

"Oh, Jimmy! The police tell us that the guard we'd hired to watch the shop until we could deal with it has left -- something about a family emergency! Our and Declan's agent is tied up in some other mess -- we can't even reach him right now! But the police will only watch for a few hours more -- we need someone there straight away. Poor Lucas has to deal with it all alone -- I can't leave Jenny. But it's so much to sift through by himself! He'll be there through the _holiday!_ "

"I'll go with him," Branson said, carrying Sybbie into the room.

"Tom, we can't ask you to do that -- Christmas Eve is tomorrow!"

"It's for Thomas -- I can't turn a blind eye! And besides, two people will make the work go all the faster."

"And three would make it go faster still!" Jimmy suggested.

"Oh, I dunno, Jimmy, I doubt Carson would let you go ...."

"Go where?" Carson asked, scowling as he came in, Lord Grantham with him.

"Mr Carson, Your Lordship," Jimmy began, "Mr Wainright must leave straight away to sort out Mr Baker's clock shop, and Mr Branson has offered to go with to expedite things. I was thinking, three would make it all go faster, and hopefully get both men back in time for the holiday ...." Jimmy finished, hoping His Lordship would understand.

"But what about Mr Barrow?" Carson asked. "The only reason I've spared you is to watch him! He's in no shape to help, between his injuries and the trauma, and we dare not leave him unattended ...."

"Oh, I can keep Thomas in check," Clarette offered. "He'll doubtless want to visit my Jenny anyway -- I'll just make sure he doesn't leave when he does."

Jimmy had no doubt she would succeed.

"Well, if James isn't needed to watch Mr Barrow--" Carson began.

"Then by all means, he should be my temporary valet and help Mr Wainright alongside Mr Branson and myself, so that we can _all_ get back in time for Christmas," Lord Grantham finished.

"As I was about to suggest," Carson agreed. (Jimmy wondered if that was true.)

"You're coming too, Your Lordship? And Tom and Jimmy?" Lucas asked, coming into the room, his coat on and a valise in his hand. "Thank you, that's very kind!"

"Just give me an hour or so to get ready, and we can catch the next train," Grantham said, hurrying out.

Lucas nodded, taking off his coat and settling in to spend that time with his family.

Jimmy hurried off to get Thomas to move to the Lavebeder room. "Mr Wainright, Mr Branson, and His Lordship are all heading out to Soho to get things sorted with the shop, and His Lordship is taking me as his valet."

"Do you have to go?" Thomas asked, looking upset -- about to cry even.

Jimmy squashed a little happy flutter in his stomach at the thought that Thomas wanted him to stay -- not hard to do, given that he hated to leave Thomas, especially if it would make him even more sad. But this was the only chance Jimmy had to give Thomas something for Christmas that would have any meaning for him ....

"If everyone is to make it back in time for Christmas, yes. So wait for me, will you?"

"I could come _with_!" Thomas pointed out. 

Impulsively, Jimmy reached out to cup his (more than?) friend's cheek. "No, you're still recovering! Let your friends take care if this for you, 'Tummy'." Feeling suddenly overwhelmed by his own feelings, Jimmy gave a furtive look around, making sure they were alone, and, heart pounding, kissed Thomas on the corner of the mouth.

It was chaste and quick -- too quick, seeing as it was the first (only?) kiss they were both awake for, but it was all that he would dare. His heart was still racing as he drew back, taking in the look of shock Thomas wore. Was there hope in it? Reproach? Fury? (Jimmy wouldn't blame him if there were any of the latter two!)

"C-Clarette's waiting for you," Jimmy stammered, taking Thomas by the hand and dragging him out of the library, not letting either of them think about what had just happened. "I have to go pack," Jimmy said as he dropped Thomas off at the Lavender room, scurrying away. He didn't stop by again before they left, too afraid of what he would see in the man's face when he saw Thomas again.

~ * * * ~  
"Tummy, are you all right?" Clarette asked, putting down her crocheting, startling Thomas out of his thoughts. 

"Oh! Sorry, I just ... Jimmy ... h-he _kissed_ me! Not like a real kiss, just right here," he pointed, "but still ..."

Thomas couldn't believe it! Did Jimmy care for him ... _that way_? Thomas wanted to hope he did, but it felt so ... _wrong_ to hope so! Declan was _dead!_ To think of someone else warming his bed .... And he'd sworn to himself he'd stop thinking of Jimmy that way anyway -- it was disrespectful!

Except that was when Jimmy for certain _didn't_ want Thomas _that way_ ....

Clarette covered her eyes with her hand, shaking her head. "That boy has _abysmal_ timing ...." She looked up at Thomas, sighing. "Okay, let me guess -- your thinking you're betraying Declan's memory if you get involved now with Jimmy."

"Well ... aren't I?"

"One: didn't you love Jimmy before finding Declan again, even if it was unrequited?" She didn't give Thomas a chance to respond. "Two, didn't Jimmy point out that the dead would want us to be happy? Or do you think Declan _wouldn't_ want that for you? And lastly, didn't Declan _suggest_ you get together with Jimmy? Seems to me, if you do, you'd just be following through with Declan's wishes!"

He couldn't think of a counterargument for that, except ... "So how come it makes me sick to consider it?"

"Because someone you love is gone, and feeling sad is a natural response. And someone you love is alive and has just demonstrated that he loves you back, and the natural response to _that_ is being happy. It's a little like being on a roller coaster -- and sometimes roller coasters can make you feel sick."

Thomas was pretty sure it was more a matter of guilt that was making him ill, rather than the actual see-sawing between happiness and depression, but she did make a good point. Having good things in your life didn't mean there couldn't also be bad -- but the opposite was _also_ true.

Jimmy had said to find a small bit of happiness and hold on. If Jimmy himself were the source of that happiness ....

Thomas shook his head at himself. "I don't want to get my hopes up. This could be some sort of ... _misunderstanding_ again. Or he could be all mixed up himself, conflating pity for me with love," he added bitterly.

"Love is _always_ mixed up," she shrugged, going back to her crocheting. "I don't think we ever love someone just one way -- it's fluid, reasons and nuances changing all the time. Still, you have a point -- so just don't throw yourself at him when he comes home, then. Let him make the first move, and if he does, then tell him you're getting mixed messages from him. Make him talk out how he's feeling, examine it. Get all your cards out on the table, so you both can decide whether to play on, or to fold."

With her blasé, matter-of-fact air, he almost believed there was nothing to fret about.


	7. Death isn't Invited - Part Three: Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy, Lucas, and the Crawleys head to the clockshop while Thomas convalesces, and make an astonishing discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genres/Themes for this Chapter:** Introspection, Character Study  
>  **Prominent Characters in this Chapter:** Jimmy, Lord Grantham, Lady Mary, Tom Branson, Anna Bates, and several OCs (including Lucas Wainright)  
>  **Relationships Featured in this Chapter:** Friends (though Thomas isn't actually in this chapter): Thomas / Jimmy, Thomas / the Crawleys Thomas / the Wainrights, Jimmy / the Wainrights.  
>  **Length for this Chapter** : about 3250 words

Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, Mrs Crawley, and Anna came along as well. When His Lordship expressed reservations. about them coming with, Mrs Crawley explained that friends were in need, and they couldn't turn a deaf ear to that -- especially not at Christmas. Jimmy was surprised but relieved that they and His Lordship came dressed in work clothes under their fine coats (Branson had provided Jimmy, Wainright, and Anna with some). Jimmy would have thought for sure that Mary and Her Ladyship would just watch from the sidelines rather than deign to wear such things, but they seemed to find it exciting -- Her Ladyship even admitting that she had worn such clothes to work on a ranch a few times, back in America (her father apparently wanting his children to know something of the life their employees lived). Lord Grantham, it turned out, wasn't a complete stranger to farm work either -- nor, it seemed, was Lady Mary. Jimmy was starting to realise he didn't know these people nearly as well as he believed, and had held some rather uncharitable assumptions about them ....

They took a pair of taxis to the shop, and immediately upon him exiting, a strange, distraught woman shoved a photo at Jimmy. "Please, sir, 'ave you seen my 'usband? 'E own's The Badger's Den, about a mile up the road. Been missin' since the night o' the fire 'ere, 'e 'as!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I've only just arrived," Jimmy said sympathetically. How strange that a neighbouring man should go missing the same night as the attack! Maybe the attackers had gone after him as well? Had he witnessed things, and been eliminated for it?

"Please, just see what 'e looks like," she pleaded, shoving the photo at him again.

Jimmy found himself looking at a man of medium build and middle age. The only thing particularly distinguishing about him was the toupee he clearly wore: it was significantly darker than the rest of his greyed hair.

He nodded, feeling bad for her. "Got it. I'll come find you if I see him, Mrs ...?" 

"Bucket. Thank you." And she moved on to the ladies' taxi.

He turned to the clock shop, where Wainright was talking to a police officer, one who then left. The shop looked structurally sound -- and the fire department had assured Wainright that everything was stable but the wooden stairs. (Branson headed down the street to buy a ladder, so they could get to the second floor, and some other supplies, as well as hire a lorry.) As the fire department had gotten there fairly quickly, the second floor was reported to be relatively unscathed by the flames, but still heavily smoke-damaged.

Wainwright opened the door, then stopped short in the doorway, taking in the devastation, his shoulders falling. He moved aside, letting Jimmy in. Anna, who came in after, let out the mew of dismay that Jimmy had been struck too speechless to utter.

Thanks to being doused in kerosene, much of the shop's central contents were reduced to ash, with bits of melted metal and glass resting in it. The tile floor was horribly singed. Most of the clocks that were left whole were still blackened, but a few looked okay -- they just stank from the smoke (though not nearly as badly as they might have, since much of what had burned was fragrant wood like walnut and cherrywood). While they waited for Branson to return, the group carefully extracted as much as they could, even pieces that probably should have been tossed, piling them near the door.

When Branson got back, about half an hour later, they had the women pack the clocks in crates and load the truck while the men tore down the remains of the old steps and set up the ladder. The second floor held clothes, some books, Jenny's toys, even some furniture that might be all right if they aired them out. There was nothing that seemed quintessentially Baker's, alas; hopefully something they were packing would hold special meaning for Thomas, but there wasn't anything in particular Jimmy could give him, like something engraved with his name. It took another couple hours, and it was tricky to move furniture without stairs, but they pretty well cleared out that floor, the women taking what was handed down and packing those small things in more crates, poking around a bit more on the first floor when they had nothing else to do.

Anna made the best discoveries. First, in seeing if she could remove a wall sconce, she discovered a door made to blend into the wall, at the back of the shop. They realised there was potentially more to salvage beyond. In fact, that room, like the second floor, seemed fairly unscathed, save for the smell -- there were several clocks in mid-repair or otherwise unfinished. In that room, Anna also found the safe, which, after a quick call to Thomas for the combination, still had money and the deed in it! But it was the last discoveries she made back there that were the best. One was that the door in the very back, leading outside, seemed to have been broken into!

The other discovery was a toupee.

Maybe it was that he'd been reading too many Holmes stories to Thomas, but a new scenario popped into Jimmy's head.

"I think this belonged to the pub owner, Mr Bucket!" he exclaimed, taking it from Anna. "Clarette said the man had it in for Mr Baker, and Thomas said he first met one of his attackers at that pub, where they got into a fight! And now Bucket is missing!"

"So what are yeh thinkin'?" Branson asked.

"Well, even if Bucket was an accomplice -- and the presence of _this_ suggests that he was," he added, shaking the toupee, "--he _could_ have gone home without worry of arrest, since no one had seen _him_ here, but he _didn't_. And even if he went on the run with the other two, he probably wouldn't have just left evidence here! So what if ...." He started to envision it all in his mind. "Picture this. What if Baker managed to get up and start leaving through the back, and found Bucket back here? Maybe they got into a fight, and Baker knocked the toupee off. Baker could have shoved Bucket into the other room and shut the door, and once it was closed, Bucket wouldn't have known how to get back in here. Baker could have left out the back. Bucket might have been overcome by smoke, or couldn't get past the flames, and so failed to get out the front." Jimmy's heart pounded with hope, the feeling growing stronger with each word he spoke.

"So it was the _pub owner_ whose body the police found, not Baker's!" Mary finished, a triumphant gleam in her eye.

"But why wouldn't Declan have come to the hospital?" Wainright wondered.

"Maybe he was found hurt, and taken somewhere else? A different hospital, maybe?" Jimmy posed, his initial elation starting to fade as he realised that, just because Baker might have gotten out, didn't mean he'd _lived_.

"Surely, though, he would have contacted his sister -- or Downton, in hopes of reaching Mr Barrow!" Cora pointed out.

"Maybe he's not in a hospital -- maybe he sought shelter somewhere. Maybe he knows that two of his assailants are still on the loose, and he's in hiding!" Mrs Crawley conjectured.

"He _still_ would have contacted us or Downton," Wainright was convinced.

"Maybe he fell into a coma, like Miss Jenny was in, before he could get to a phone," Anna suggested.

"Or he's somewhere without a phone nearby and too injured to get to one," Mary posed.

"Well, one thing's for certain: we should notify the police about the toupee," His Lordship chimed in.

The others nodded.

"I'll start questioning the neighbors that I know," Lucas decided. "Those, at least, should talk to me, even if they _are_ hiding Declan."

"I'll try the people you _don't_ know, then," Jimmy offered.

"So will Anna and I," Mary declared. "Jimmy can charm the women, and I'll handle the men."

"Mary!" His Lordship sounded scandalised.

"What? Flirtation is the best way to get people to talk to us. No man will try anything if Jimmy and Anna are with me, don't worry."

Grantham sighed, his wife patting his arm, smirking.

"I'll check other hospitals," Mrs Crawley offered.

"I'll help Isobel," Cora added. "Between professional courtesy and social standing, we shouldn't have any trouble."

"Tom, you get the truck back to Downton, but don't say anything about how Baker might be alive," Lord Grantham ordered. "We don't want to get anyone's hopes up. Tell them we got wrangled into a charity event. I'll handle the police. Just one thing: no one should flat-out ask if someone has seen Baker. If anyone is in cahoots with those men, we don't want to tip them off that Baker is alive."

His Lordship had a point.

Everyone took turns changing in the back room; thankfully, there was a sink that still worked, so they were able to wipe off the soot. Once done, Branson, His Lordship, Mrs Crawley, and Her Ladyship headed out straight away. After Wainright drew out a hasty map denoting the locations he would visit, Jimmy, Mary, and Anna took it and worked in a spiral out from the shop, starting with buildings behind it. Some shops had more than one apartment over them, so it took a bit of time -- especially when older folk craving company would try to keep them longer. Out of a hope of getting more information, as well as out of simple politeness, they must have drunk half a gallon of tea apiece that afternoon! But to no avail.

When they met back at the shop that evening, only His Lordship, arriving last with two policemen in tow, had had any success at all: the coroner confirmed that the body found has been partially bald -- and had no sign of a gunshot wound! (Lord Grantham gave quite a rant about them police not realising that dead man wasn't Baker, despite the missing wound.) Now the police were back to investigate, before heading over to the pub to verify that the toupee had belonged to her husband.

"Look! Blood!" Jimmy exclaimed, shining a torch on the floor.

Sure enough, there was a spot, difficult to see against the dried wood. It was near the door; he went outside, vaguely aware of the others following. He found another spot a few feet away from the door, then another, then another. There was a small, dried puddle of rust-red in the middle of the road, a few more drops beyond that, and nothing.

"Well, obviously he's not here, so what the devil happened?" His Lordship snapped.

"A car!" Jimmy realised. "Someone found him, loaded him into a car, and drive off." He prayed it wasn't the two assailants, finishing the job!

"I think the only thing to do now is to talk to Mrs Bucket," Wainright said, looking defeated.

The police drove them to The Badger's Den. Mrs Bucket sank down into a chair when she saw the police walked in, toupee in Constable Anderson's hand.

"He's gone, then," she said dully, wiping a bit of water off the table from a leak in the ceiling.

Looking around, Jimmy noted the place was looking rather run-down -- no wonder Bucket had wanted to move location!

"Yes, marm, I'm afraid so," Constable Evans replied. "I regret to also inform you that your husband was involved in a violent crime the night of his disappearance."

"I know," she sighed. "I was waiting for 'em in the car that night, in the back alley."

Fear gripped Jimmy. A car in the back alley -- a car that belonged to the assailants, and was where Baker was last standing ....

"When I heard about the man what was found dead, I was afraid it was my Billy. The longer the wait was, the more certain I became. You have to understand -- 'e wasn't an evil man, my Billy! 'E never would 'ave agreed to it if'n 'e knew what Martin and Collins were gonna do!"

"Mrs Bucket, why don't you start from the beginning," Anderson prompted gently.

She took a deep breath. "The day of the fire, Martin -- 'e's one of our regulars, see -- 'e gets 'is knickers in a twist over some stranger bein' in 'is favourite seat. I wasn't right there, mind, bein' in the kitchen, but I 'ear tell later that there was somefin' of a brawl. My 'usband debated whether to break it up -- 'e didn't want to upset a regular over a man 'e'd probably never see again, so he decided ta let them settle it amongst themselves. It was over just as I was comin' out o' the kitchen. The man left, but as 'e did, Mr Samuels, 'oo was just comin' in, says 'ello to the bloke, callin' 'im Mr Barrow. This other chap in the room -- Collins, an acquaintance o' Martin -- 'e asks Weatherly 'oo the chap leavin' was. Mr Weatherly says that was Mr Thomas Barrow, what now works at Mr Baker's clock shop down the road.

"'Barrow? Formerly of Downton Abbey?' Collins asks.

"'Why yes, I think so! Leastwise, I think that's where they said they were goin' when they said they'd be closing up shop for a few days around Christmas,' Mr Weatherly replies.

"Collins, 'e asks to 'ave a private word wif Martin. My Billy says, if'n it involves Baker, 'e wants to 'ear it too. See, Baker bought the deed to that shop from a bloke what won it off a card game. My Billy 'ad been fixin' ta buy it from the original owner before the berk lost that game -- it'd be cheaper than fixin' up this place, and it's a better area -- so my Billy's been sore about it ever since. Anyway, Billy an' 'is mates go inta the kitchen, an' I listen frough the door. Collins says 'e finks Barrow or one o' 'is friends killed 'is boss. Collins figures Barrow owes 'im some money fer losin' 'im 'is job, an' wonders if Martin would like ta settle 'is own score by 'elpin' Collins rob the clock shop. Billy figures maybe that'd convince Baker to go somewhere else, an' sell 'im the shop. Collins says sure -- they could vandalise the place a bit too. But 'ed didn't day nofin' 'bout startin' no _fire_ , mind!

"They got to drinkin' as they make plans -- an' Martin was already tipsy to start wif. I'd 'oped' they'd drink themselves into a stupor an' forget abou' it, but they left that very night, insistin' I drive 'em an' wait wif the car runnin'.

"I didn't feel right abou' it, but ... 'e's my 'usband, Billy is," she says firmly, choking up, "an' I swore I'd stay wiff 'im for better or for worse, so I do as 'e asks. So I'm sittin' there fifteen minutes or so, before I 'ears what sounds like a gunshot. A minute or two later, someone comes stumblin' out the back door an' collapses on the street. I get out to see f they're awright -- it's Mr Baker, an 'e's been shot! I'm sure it was either Martin or that Collins bloke what did it. I wait a minute or two, prayin' my Billy'll come out too, but 'e ... 'e doesn't."

It took her a moment to recover from the thought of her husband dying. Jimmy felt a little pity, but not much -- she'd helped her husband commit a crime that three people nearly died in, even if that was never Bucket's intent (and Jimmy wasn't so convinced it wasn't).

"I worried Mr Baker would die," Mrs Bucket continued, "an' then my Billy might go to prison as an accessory ta ... ta _murder_. But I was a triage nurse in the war -- I know a thing or two abou' gunshot wounds. So I got Mr Baker into the car, took 'im back 'ere, an fixed 'im up. 'E's upstairs."

"He's alive??" Jimmy exclaimed, running up the stairs, Wainright and Evans close behind him.

Jimmy peeked his head into room after room, calling out for Mr Baker, ignoring the squeaked protests of the rooms' occupants.

In a dark room at the end of the hall, he turned on the light, and found Baker sleeping. Wainright hurried past, gently trying to wake the man.

"Tummy?" Baker asked groggily, his eyes fluttering.

"I been givin' 'im Tabloid opium for the pain, so 'e may be a bit whiffy still," she explained,looking anxious.

Jimmy suspected she might have used a bit more than she ought to have.

"Help me lift him," Wainright said to Jimmy.

Jimmy took his feet while Wainright took his head; Together, they managed to get the man down the narrow stair without too much stumbling. Evans took them and Grantham to the hospital, while Anderson waited with Mrs. Bucket -- presumably to take her to jail when Evans got back, but Anderson seemed trying to soothe her all the same. Jimmy did manage to feel sorry for her; loyalty was a powerful thing, and she did do right by Baker in the end.

The hospital doctor said there was a slight infection and a low-grade fever, but he felt certain Baker would recover.

"Can we bring Mr Baker with us back to Yorkshire?" Lord Grantham asked. "His sister is there."

"So long as he takes it easy, doesn't walk more than a dozen or so feet at a time, I dare say being with family for the holiday is better than not."

It was late, though. They debated calling and telling Clarette and Thomas that they'd found Baker, but ultimately decided it would just make the pair anxious, having to wait until the next afternoon to see him. Not to mention what a wonderful Christmas surprise it would be!

The hospital, being quiet, let Wainright stay in the bed next to Baker's room, and the rest of them stayed at a nearby hotel.

Jimmy listened that night as Lord Grantham gave Carson the good news, instructing the man not to tell anyone about Baker. His Lordship and the butler then plotted the surprise of Baler's return. Carson, it seemed, was to tell everyone that they would arrive much later than they really would; Carson then was to make sure Thomas and Clarette were in the nursery around the true arrival time. Once Baker and Wainright were settled in the library, Carson was to summon Thomas and Clarette, saying Wainright wanted them to have tea with him there. He was to leave immediately, and ensure no one else disturbed them. Jimmy was surprised and touched that His Lordship had thought to make sure that Thomas and Baker would be free to have the kind of reunion one might expect two people in love to have ....

For his part, though, Jimmy spent the night wrestling with the fact that some small, evil part of him was a little sorry they'd found Baker. He took solace in the fact that the bulk of him was glad -- for Thomas, for Clarette and Jenny, and even for Baker himself, who really wasn't a bad chap, if Jimmy were honest. Jimmy both looked forward to and dreaded seeing his friend's face when Thomas saw Baker again. Maybe he wasn't to be there anyway? His Lordship hadn't specified what Jimmy should do upon their arrival ....


	8. Death isn't Invited - Part Four: Special Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gifts are presented -- including the one(s?) Thomas needs most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genres/Themes for this Chapter:** Introspection, Character Study, Reunion, Romance, Gift-Giving, Secret Codes / Spy stuff, Fluff, Happy Ending  
>  **Prominent Characters in this Chapter:** Thomas, Jimmy, Lord Grantham, Lady Grantham (nominally), the dowager (nominally), the downstairs staff (nominally), and a few OCs (Declan Baker and the Wainright family)  
>  **Relationships Featured in this Chapter:** Friends: Thomas / Jimmy, Thomas / the Wainrights, Jimmy / the Wainrights, Jimmy / Declan. Romantic: Thomas / Declan Baker, Thomas / Jimmy, shades of future Jimmy / Thomas / Declan  
>  **Length for this Chapter** : almost 7040 words

When Jimmy was sent into the hospital to fetch Baker and Wainright the next morning, Baker seemed far less groggy, but also in more pain. Jimmy could see shiny reddish areas, likely coated with petroleum jelly, and realised the man had suffered some minor burns. Jimmy felt all the guiltier then, for his ill thoughts towards the man.

Especially when Baker _thanked_ him.

"Lucas tells me I was only found because _you_ put two and two together about the Buckets! I might have died under that woman's care otherwise! _And_ you saved Thomas from freezing to death in the snow? Seems I owe you for _both_ our lives!" He was emphatic and sincere -- making Jimmy even more uncomfortable. "I ... I hope this means we can be _friends_ ," he added quietly.

Jimmy couldn't speak for a moment, reminded strongly of when Thomas had made the same request. Jimmy still wasn't thrilled about the idea of Baker being around, but felt guilty for feeling that way. And hadn't granting that wish when Thomas had made it turn out for the best ...? "Of course," he finally managed, helping the man to his feet, ready to catch him if he fell.

It was ridiculous to dislike the man -- he was kind, and he made Thomas happy.

_And you'll hardly see Thomas anymore because of him._

Except ... with the shop gone, maybe they could move to the village ...?

Would it be better or worse, having Thomas be so near when he was ... _with_ someone else?

~ * * * ~  
For the train, since all eight of them would be a tight fit in one private compartment, His Lordship and Wainright each purchased their own -- and Lord Grantham then decided that Jimmy should ride with Wainright and Baker, in case the latter needed anything. Feeling immensely awkward, Jimmy found himself seated across from the two men.

Wainright had an attaché case beside him; as the train departed, he opened it, taking out a folio and a pen. From the folio, he withdrew sheets of blank music staffs, and began to fill them in.

"Edgar?" Baker asked weakly, gesturing limply to the paper.

Wainright nodded, intent on his work.

"Clarette mentioned an Edgar," Jimmy noted without thinking, desperate to fill the vocal silence, even if the train ensured there was no true quiet. "Are you writing a song for him?"

Wainright got a strange smile on his face, which Baker echoed. "In a manner of speaking."

"It's a letter," Baker whispered, eye on the closed door.

Wainright shot the man a warning look.

"Oh, come on, Lucas! He knows what Thomas and I are. He's saved my life, and saved Thomas twice. I think he's earned our trust! It might be useful to teach him, if Thomas should like to write to him."

Wainright looked Jimmy square in the eye for a long, excruciatingly uncomfortable moment, doubtless sizing him up. Then, speaking lowly, "This is strictly between us, you understand. I'm trusting you with out very _lives_ ." He paused; Jimmy leaned in intently, nodding that he understood. Lucas leaned in as well. "What I'm doing is using musical notes to write a message."

"Are you a _spy??_ " Jimmy hissed excitedly.

Wainright rolled his eyes, chuckling as he shook his head. "What I _am_ is a bisexual man who would like to correspond with his male lover without it getting either of us _arrested_."

Jimmy thought of Clarette, and felt, to his surprise, anger on her behalf. "I thought you and Mrs Wainright were happily married!" he protested, just barely managing to keep his volume in check, glad for the noise of the locomotive.

"We _are_ ," Lucas replied, clearly bemused. "So are Edgar and his wife, Bridgette. That doesn't stop Bridgette and Clarette from being lovers."

Jimmy sat back against the seat, stunned.

"If it's any consolation, Edgar and Bridgette are our only other lovers. But think about it, my good man: if we don't believe love should be limited by gender, why would we believe it should be limited by _number_? We have all agreed to this arrangement -- there are no secrets. Frankly, since the Bible includes polygamy, I'm a little surprised our modern society takes such issue with the idea. But society does, nonetheless -- and even if it didn't mind, it probably wouldn't be okay with the idea of me and Edgar being lovers. Thus, he and I use a cypher, so that we could, ah ... say how much we love each other via post when we're apart." Something about the way he said it suggested the words would put the bawdiest of songs to shame.

Part of Jimmy balked strongly at this polygamy notion, but he couldn't deny the logic. If all parties were willing, and he no longer believed that same-sex relationships were wrong, how could he say that the arrangement the Waignrights had was wrong? Weren't any feelings he had against the idea the result of what he'd been taught his whole life to believe, just like with homosexuality? If he could change his mind about the one, why not the other?

He saw Baker looking at him expectantly, and suddenly felt a new, terrifying possibility dawning -- one he wasn't sure he was ready to contemplate yet. He latched onto the bit of conversation that was least likely to overwhelm him (as conversations with the Waignrights seemed wont to do).

"Will you teach me the cypher, Mr Wainright?"

"Only if you call me Lucas."

The code turned out to be fairly simple, once one managed to put aside the letters normally associated with the staff. A quarter-note in one of the spaces between the lines represented a vowel; starting with the top of the five spaces of the staff and going down, they went A, E, I, O, and U. For numbers, starting with the top space, half-notes represented zed through four, and whole notes represented five through nine. For the consonants, starting with the top line of the staff and ending with the sixth, quarter-notes denoted B through H, half-notes were J through P, whole-notes were V through W, and eighth-notes were X through Z.

Quarter-notes placed on the first ledger-line below the staff denoted commas, while half-notes placed there were question marks, whole notes were periods, eighth-notes were exclamation points, and sixteenth-notes before and after a word denoted emphasis. Quarter-notes placed on the first ledger-line above the staff denoted apostrophes, while half-notes there were colons, and whole notes were semicolons. Rests denoted hyphens. Slurs -- curved lines grouping notes together -- denoted that those note-letters together made a word. And several other combinations, with punctuation notes placed directly above or below letter notes, instead of in the next space on the scale, denoted umlauts, accent aigu, and the like. Since parentheses were used in musical notation already, to denote ghost notes, those remained somewhat as they were -- anything meant to be in parentheses started and ended with a ghost note.

"Can you read it yourself, Mr Ba--er, Declan?" Jimmy asked the man while finishing writing a practice message, using a valise as a table.

"Oh, yes, and so can Thomas -- Clarette came up with this system when we were children. But I wouldn't read anything you sent to Thomas!" he added hurriedly.

Jimmy appreciated the assurance -- and being let in on something from his friend's childhood, something that wouldn't be shared with the others at Downton. Something that seemed just for the Baker-Wainright family. Maybe ... maybe Jimmy wasn't really being shut out of Thomas' life, nor traded for Declan and the Waignrights ....

"Did I do this right?" Jimmy asked, holding the sheet out to the man. If they were to be friends, he figured he'd best start being nicer at the first opportunity.

Looking touched, Declan took the sheet and began to read. "Dear Thomas, Look, I'm writing to you! Never was one for writing, but this is fun! Yours truly, Jimmy."

Declan and Lucas exchanged grins. "By George, I think he's got it!" Lucas cheered.

Jimmy was stunned at how quickly Declan could read it, given how long it had taken Jimmy to write it, but he supposed speed would come with practice.

"Let me try some more," Jimmy said, getting a sudden idea and taking the sheet back.

Heart pounding, he wrote another letter -- to Declan, this time. He hesitated at the start, but reckoned there was no reason to hold back, communicating this way. If Declan was going to stay in his life, then that life was going to change. It was just a question of how, and the only way to know was to ask ...

_Declan, forgive my asking, but if I may ... are you and Thomas also into polygamy?_

"Don't read it aloud," Jimmy warned, hand trembling as he turned it over.

Declan raised a brow but nodded. He read it quickly, and, after taking the valise-table and pen, almost as quickly wrote out a reply, handing it over. "Now let's see how well you can _read_ it."

Jimmy could, though it took him three times as long, he reckoned.

_Sort of. Neither of us is currently seeing anyone else, but we have decided we would consider it. (We prefer the term polyamoury, though -- more accurate!) Now, permit me to ask a hard question in turn, and please don't take offense. I know you care for Thomas -- are you asking if he's polyamorous because you're interested in being more than friends with him?_

Jimmy paled upon reading the reply, a cold sweat dripping down his neck. This was the moment of truth. But what _was_ the truth? Taking the valise and pen back, he stared at the paper a long time.

"You don't have to answer," Declan said gently. 

That actually strengthened Jimmy's resolve; he began to write.

 _I don't really know. I know I miss him, and worry for him, and the thought of him choosing you made me ... angry. I like touching him and being touched by him -- which is strange, because it used to upset me. The idea of ..._ that _kind of sexual activity used to sicken me -- and still does, yet somehow ... it excites me, too. But I don't think I could actually do it!_

Finishing it, Jimmy hesitated, then thrust it forward, as if he were punching through a wall around himself, to freedom.

Maybe he was, at that.

A moment or two after he began reading, Declan paused to give Jimmy a sympathetic smile. Another few moments, and Declan took back the desk and wrote a reply, handing it all back after a few minutes.

_People change, evolve. Even if you hadn't believed homosexuality was wrong, he touched you without your consent. I want to make sure you understand: even if you enjoy his touches now, and even if you declare your love for him, you can still withdraw consent at any time. Whatever you do together will always be your choice. And you don't have to ever do anything together -- but you have my approval to go as far together as you wish. Just know that there are other things you can do together besides penetrative sex, if that repulses you._

Jimmy quailed a little at the man's blunt speech, but curiosity overcame that. _What "other things"? And would you be there too, if Thomas and I got ... intimate?_

 _While I'm certainly open to a threesome,_ Declan replied, _I would give you as much privacy as you wish for. You would never have to have more than a conversation with me, and even that could be kept to a minimum. As for the other things, you could just kiss. You could limit touch to certain areas. You could allow fondling genitals, but not penetration. Or he could take your cock in his mouth -- I'm sure he wouldn't expect you to reciprocate, if the idea makes you uncomfortable, but I'm also sure he would want to do that for you, if you wanted it. You don't have to decide anything right now. Hell, I don't even know where we'll be living now! Funnily enough, I had considered moving near Downton, but it turned out there's already a clockworker in the village._

Jimmy was feeling a dizzying mix of hope and embarrassment. He latched on to the latter part of Declan's note, trying not to think any further on Declan's suggestions -- just reading them had caused his trousers to begin tenting! But the end of this latest missive gave him an entirely different reason to feel elated (and guilty about _feeling_ elated).

"Oh! You mean Mr Davis! But he died of a heart attack last week!"

"Oh! The poor man!"

Jimmy could tell poor Declan was similarly conflicted. "Yes, yes, poor Mr Davis," Jimmy agreed before getting swept up in his excitement. "I'll go talk to His Lordship about looking into the property, shall I? I'm sure he'd want to make the call the moment we get to Downton!"

"I ... I-I ..."

"I'll take that as a yes," Jimmy said, grinning and hurrying to the other compartment.

(Thankfully the issue in his trousers had abated.)

He barely remembered to knock on the Grantham party's compartment's door.

"Come in," Her Ladyship's muffled voice invited.

"Your Ladyship, Your Lordship! Forgive the intrusion, but De--er, Mr Baker was just talking of how he and Mr Barrow need a new place to live, and he mentioned how he'd actually considered moving shop to our village months ago, only it turned out we already had a clockworker."

His Lordship obviously saw where Jimmy was going with this. "And Mr Davis passed away just last week!"

"That's what I told him. If it pleases Your Lordship--"

"I'll make inquiries the moment we get back to Downton!" Grantham promised, smiling.

Jimmy couldn't help but grin as he thanked the man.

~ * * * ~  
The women took a separate car from the train station, going to the Dowager's house for the afternoon; Tom picked up the men and drove them to the abbey. Branson, strangely, took the bags in, so Jimmy followed His Lordship and Carson as they led Lucas and Declan into the library.

"Carson will tell Mrs Wainright and Mr Barrow that Mr Wainright is waiting here, but not Mr Baker," Grantham told his guests. He will attend other duties rather than accompany them, so you may have some privacy, but should you need anything, don't hesitate to ring. When you wish to freshen up, you'll find your usual rooms ready for you. Please excuse me, as I need to make some calls, but I will see you both again at dinner." Grantham shook Wainright's and Baker's hands, then left, Carson close behind him.

Neither Grantham nor Carson said anything about what Jimmy should do.

"I guess I should go change," Jimmy decided. Then he would seek Carson out -- he couldn't imagine the butler would want him resting on his laurels a moment longer. "See you at dinner." 

Declan grabbed his arm. "Hold on, the hero of the hour should be here to receive his thanks!"

As much as he'd warmed up to Declan, Jimmy wasn't sure he could handle watching the man and Thomas kiss.

"I-I really think you deserve a private reunion," Jimmy hedged; thankfully, Declan let him go with an understanding nod.

Unfortunately, Thomas and Clarette spotted Jimmy as he tried to make his way to a servant passage.

"Jimmy, come with us," Thomas pleaded, grabbing his arm, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I've missed you, and really I could use the moral support when Lucas tells me the state of things, I think."

Well, how could Jimmy say no to that?

~ * * * ~  
Thomas thought seeing Jimmy would make him feel better -- and well, it did in a way, but Thomas also felt his grief anew, like a re-opened wound. He prayed he wouldn't completely break down once he talked to Lucas! He gripped Clarette's hand tightly, feeling her grip grow just as tight. (He would have taken Jimmy's hand too, but he wasn't sure Jimmy would feel comfortable doing that, even after the kiss, much less that Carson would appreciate it ...). When they reached the door, Jimmy hurried through first, holding it open. Thomas took a few deep breaths to calm himself, blinking back tears. Clarette squeezed his hand; he smiled as best he could at her, moving his hand to her back and nudging her through the door Jimmy held open for them.

She stopped short in front of him with a gasp. Though his gaze had been on the ground, Thomas was tall enough to see over her, see what shocked her, before she could even say, " _Declan!!_ "

Had Thomas gone mad? Well, if he had, then Clarette had too, for she was hugging the life out of the apparition now. Was he dreaming, then? He dared not move, even breathe, for fear of waking. He felt a hand at his back, though, pushing him forward. He stumbled, almost drunkenly, into the arms of a ghost, one that held him upright in a breath-stealing embrace as the world began to swim. He had a vague sensation of slipping to the ground, but the entity that looked like Declan never let go. If Thomas had had any breathe left to take, it would have been taken with the searing kiss the spectre then gave him.

Surely such heat would have woken him, were Thomas asleep? He no longer cared. If it _was_ just a dream, he would savour every moment, not waste it -- he returned both the embrace and the kiss with interest. Only bodily reflex intervened, as his treacherous body demanded air. Panting, he lost himself in eyes he thought he would never have the joy of drowning in again. "Are you a dream or a miracle?"

Declan grinned, and Thomas felt himself mirror it. "Tis the season for the latter, isn't it?" Then he looked alarmed. "Wait, it _is_ , isn't it?"

"Last day of the Saturnalia? Yes, you haven't missed it," Clarette confirmed with a weak chuckle, ruffling her brother's hair. Her face suddenly crumpling, she threw her arms around both men. "Thank Mithras and Odin!" she sobbed.

"Thank Jimmy, you mean," Lucas clarified. "He's the one who found me."

Thomas turned towards Jimmy. It was hard to tell for sure, looking through tear-blurred eyes, but Jimmy looked embarrassed. As much as Thomas didn't want to let Declan go, he did, embracing Jimmy, thanking him, so choked up with joy he could barely speak.

Clarette, putting her arms around them both, managed to be more vocal. "There aren't enough thanks in the world, Jimmy, but you have all of mine!"

~ * * * ~  
Jimmy had expected to feel jealous, watching the two men kiss, but not joyous, yet here he was, grinning with cheer. (And ... maybe a little aroused.) Thomas was happier than Jimmy had ever seen him, and so that made Jimmy happy in turn. All right, so it was someone else who made Thomas that happy, but Jimmy had at least played a part in instigating that happiness, by making the reunion possible! He was beyond glad that he could do this for his friend, whatever happened next.

He would not think now of how Declan had suggested Thomas might love Jimmy as well. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But when Thomas turned to him, it was hard not to perceive what he saw in his friend's face as love. Hard not to believe the way Thomas embraced him was a lover's embrace. Hard not to kiss him again (but if he had, it would have been fully on the mouth this time). He told himself it was enough to be the man's friend, and share this joy.

Himself listened -- for now.

They sat around the fireplace, Thomas and Clarette to either side of Declan, and Jimmy, across from them, surrounded by Lucas and Jenny -- and wishing there was room for him beside Thomas instead. (Was Declan right? Did Thomas have room in his life and heart for Jimmy in ... _that_ way?) At Declan's prompting, and with interjections of praise and encouragement from everyone (including hugs from Jenny), Jimmy related the events in Soho.

By the time he was done, a bell rang, warning them they had best change for dinner -- meaning Jimmy into his livery. "Sounds like it's time for the coach to become a pumpkin again," Jimmy quipped, hurrying out.

~ * * * ~  
Thomas had been about to go after Jimmy, but Clarette stayed him. "He's basically had several days off, looking after you," she pointed out. "His Lordship has done quite enough for us; let's not disrupt the functioning of the household any more than our mere presence already does."

"Besides, I do think poor Jimmy needs the space to think about some things," Declan added cryptically.

"Should I be worried?" Thomas asked, worried already.

"Quite the opposite, I'd wager!" Declan grinned, kissing his hand.

Thomas felt his stomach flip. Was Declan saying what he thought ...?

"Dec, dear, don't get his hopes up," Clarette admonished with a nevertheless fond smile.

Thomas squeezed Declan's hand. "I won't. It's enough that Jimmy brought Declan back to us. I couldn't ask more of him."

"But you wouldn't say no if he _offers_ more, right?" Declan asked.

"I would not," Thomas agreed. Then, "Unless you'd want me to ...?"

"Most assuredly no," Declan assured him, eyes twinkling and mirth tugging at his lip.

It was a sure sign the man was up to something. Thomas prayed whatever it was didn't blow up in their faces ....

Clarette kissed Declan's cheek, then Thomas', as Lucas gathered up a sleepy-looking Jenny. Then, the Wainrights left the lovers alone.

Declan kissed Thomas on the mouth this time.

Thomas ended it (after letting it last longer than he probably should have), but only out of respect for his hosts, who could come walking in any moment. "We need to get changed ourselves," he pointed out.

"Can't we just skip dinner? We're both hurt, after all!" Declan waggled his eyebrows.

"If we're not well enough for dinner, were not well enough for ... _other_ things," Thomas pointed out wryly. Then he grew concerned, hand reaching for Declan's chest but stopping short of touching. " _Are_ you okay?"

"Yeah. Well, not one-hundred percent, obviously, but it wasn't a fatal hit. Just hurts, is all. Better than being dead. And it doesn't stop me from wanting you ...."

Well, Thomas supposed one more little kiss wouldn't hurt.

This time, though, it was Declan who pulled away. "Wait, what about _you_? Are _you_ all right?"

Thomas shrugged. "Arm hurts a bit, but it's just a fracture. Bruised a few ribs, but they feel much better. I've certainly had worse."

Declan, looking alarmed, seemed about to ask what Thomas meant, when Thomas held a finger to his lips. "Dress now, stories later."

Dressing together probably wasn't the wisest idea, but neither of them was in the shape to do it on their own. They managed to keep their touches professional as they donned dinner garments on loan from the Crawleys. (Even though the clothes looked so much alike, it still felt immensely strange to Thomas to wear a dinner jacket rather than livery or a suit ....)

As Declan eased off his coat, something fell out of the inside pocket -- a handful of folded papers. Declan moved to pick it up, then winced, hand to his chest. Thomas, wary of his own injuries, to his ribs, bent at the knees instead of the waist, picking it up and standing again, looking it over.

It was a sheet of musical notes.

"I need to hit the head," Declan suddenly announced, "so if you read that, I would have no idea, but it's pretty normal to look at something that's fallen on the floor to see what it is, right? To check if it's important? And I seem to recall that at least part of that letter is specifically for you, anyway! Be right back." And without giving Thomas a chance to ask anything, Declan left the room.

Immensely curious and inexplicably nervous, Thomas looked at the notes, and suddenly remembered the code they used as children. It took him a moment or two to remember how it went, but once he did, it was easy to read.

It was a letter from Jimmy.

At first, it was to Thomas himself. He almost whooped with joy -- it seemed his friend would keep in touch now.

And then Jimmy asked Declan something than made Thomas fall heavily to a chair.

Jimmy was interested in Thomas.

Moreover, he willing to share, rather than expecting Thomas to choose. And now, reading Jimmy's thoughts on the matter, Thomas knew it was safe to broach the subject -- especially now that they had the music notes to speak to each other with! 

Jimmy may have given Thomas the best gift possible, in the form of Declan's life, but now Declan had given him something nearly as wonderful: the knowledge of Jimmy's love.

When Declan returned, that gleam back in his eye, Thomas showed his gratitude, the effort leaving both men breathless (though they each managed to get an "I love you" or three out). Thomas hoped he'd be able to give Jimmy a similar thank-you soon.

And dinner was less awkward than Thomas feared.

He'd never eaten with the family, always going downstairs on previous visits. He would have done it tonight, except that it would have felt ungrateful, not breaking bread with His Lordship after all the man had done for them -- especially on a holiday. As they waited to enter the dining room, Thomas took a moment to express that gratitude; it was a strange feeling to have them look back at him as a guest, rather than a servant, but a welcome one nonetheless. And when he tried to raise the subject of finding a new home, His Lordship had given Declan a strange look, then insisted they needn't worry, they could stay as long as they needed, and they'd talk more about it some other time,insisting they not even think about it over the holidays. Curious.

Thomas thought being served by Jimmy would be painful -- it didn't seem at all right in theory. But despite him keeping silent (until he was directed otherwise) and wearing livery, Jimmy somehow made it feel all right, like this was just another one of those nights he was caring for Thomas while the under-butler was hurt. Thomas caught Jimmy gazing at him warmly, and wondered if anyone else noticed.

Jimmy seemed friendly to Declan now, too (as much as a footman could get away with being while serving, anyway), a fact over which Thomas was immensely relieved. And while the dowager had heard the basic details already from Lady Grantham, she questioned Jimmy anyway, which provided Thomas ample excuse to gaze upon the man, never mind that servants were typically not meant to be seen or heard. When he didn't have that excuse to stare, he could feast his eyes on Declan, thanks to the man being seated across from him. But maybe he did that too much; he caught Lady Mary eyeing him, a sly, amused smile behind partially hidden behind her glass, several times.

Thomas occasionally pinched his leg, still having trouble believing he wasn't dreaming, after the nightmare his life had become. If he really wasn't, then he never wanted to sleep again!

When dinner was over and they'd socialised a bit (long enough for Jimmy to get off-duty), Declan suggested he and Thomas should say hello to their friends downstairs before retiring. Clarette asked to come along and to bring Jenny, clearly not wanting to spend a single moment away from her brother or daughter after nearly losing them. Thomas knew exactly how she felt.

It was downstairs, playing cards, that Thomas could truly appreciate the difference in Jimmy: now all smiles, even joking with Declan. Mrs Hughes and the Bateses seemed to notice the change as well, regarding Jimmy with raised brows and bemused expressions.

So did Alfred, when he made a poor bet and Jimmy, winning the hand, told Alfred to keep his money. "Who are you, and what have you done with Jimmy Kent?" the gangly young man asked as he took back his wager.

"Hey! It's Christmas -- even I have a heart at this time of year," Jimmy protested, acting mock-wounded. He then lit a cigarette with his father's old lighter.

The tiny flame warmed Thomas; he just wished he could have seen Jimmy's face when he'd found the gift! "You got one to spare?" he asked.

"Share this one," Jimmy offered, holding it out.

Thomas took a drag, wondering if the offer was meant to seem as intimate as Thomas thought -- and if anyone else heard it that way. Looking at Declan, smirking behind the latest hand, Thomas reckoned his beloved did, even after Molesley remarked, "You should work on your poker face, Mr Baker!"

As the night wore on, people called it a night, one by one. When the Batses bid adieu, that was the end of the game. "I'll see you to your room," Thomas told Declan. "I'll say goodnight before I turn in, if you'll be up when I get there -- say, fifteen minutes?" he then asked Jimmy.

Jimmy smiled, nodding. Declan shook his hand, that knowing smirk tugging at his lips, and Jimmy blushed.

Thomas wished he could take them right then and there, on the table.

Since they wouldn't dare disrespect Robert by having sex under the man's roof, the kiss Thomas and Declan exchanged, in Declan's usual room, had to last them both until they could find another private moment (and who knew when _that_ would be). "Good luck with Jimmy," Declan whispered against his neck, sending a shiver through Thomas, tempting him to drag the man upstairs. He prayed they would have their own place again soon -- and that Jimmy would visit.

Often.

"I love you," Thomas whispered by way of goodnight, Declan returning.

Upstairs, Thomas found his door open, Jimmy waiting, looking nervous, and suddenly Thomas was nervous too. He closed the door behind him, hoping Carson would assume Thomas just wanted privacy to thank the man (the truth), and didn't believe Thomas would dare kiss Jimmy again ( _that_ depended on Jimmy).

~ * * * ~  
Jimmy fought against the urge to pace the room as he waited for Thomas. He wondered if they could hear the pounding of his heart all the way down in the kitchen. There was no reason to be nervous, was there? Even if they kissed (and he was both eager for and terrified of the prospect), surely they wouldn't do more -- not here! No, it would be a while before Jimmy would be faced with having to decide just how far he would go.

Thomas arrived, looking nervous too, and Jimmy's stomach dropped. Was it that Thomas was going to let him down, and wasn't looking forward to it? No, that was ridiculous -- he didn't even know about Jimmy's change of heart!

"I think you should know," Thomas began after shutting the door, "Your letter fell out of Declan's jacket -- I saw that it was for me, so I started to read it, but ... I didn't stop when I saw the next bit was for Declan. I hope that's okay?"

Jimmy felt the blood drain from his face, and he half fell to the bed. So he _did_ know. Was he not as open to the idea as Declan thought? Had he stopped caring for Jimmy?

"I guess that depends on how you feel about it," he replied.

"Well, it's like this," Thomas began, sitting next to him, eyes averted. "I never stopped loving him, even after I met and fell for you."

Jimmy's heart sank. Was he getting the brush-off after all?

Thomas took his hand, meeting Jimmy's eyes. "But I never stopped loving _you_ , either, even when I found Declan again. So it comes down to ... knowing that I do still love him, can you believe that I also love you? Can _you_ really love _me_?"

If Jimmy had doubted before, he didn't now: he loved this man. Even knowing that Thomas didn't love _just_ him, he believed that Thomas loved him more than anyone else ever had or could. And even if Thomas didn't, it wouldn't matter: Jimmy loved him, and real love asked nothing in return.

Thomas had taught him that, saving Jimmy's life out if love even after a year of Jimmy treating him like a pariah.

"I do," Jimmy whispered, wondering if it could possibly feel any more wonderful to say those words in front of a full church, promising to love and cherish this man forever. He didn't think it would, if only because he was already saying it to the person who most needed to hear them. "I do love you, Thomas."

Thomas smiled, and it was like the dawn lit up the room, making the candle on the bedside table useless.

Thomas leaned forward, then suddenly jerked back. Jimmy stifled a whimper of frustration.

"Can ... can I kiss you?" Thomas whispered.

 _Oh!_ Jimmy nodded, leaning forward himself and cupping the man's cheek, closing his eyes more the closer their lips came.

It was gentle and sweet at first, even as that slight contact sent a slow burn through Jimmy, better than whiskey -- and yet so hesitant, like Thomas was asking permission every second of it. Jimmy slipped his hand into the man's hair and opened his mouth, flicking the man's lips with hus tongue. Thomas parted his mouth in invitation with an answering lick. Remembering what Declan had said, Jimmy realised Thomas wanted _him_ to set the pace. Jimmy also realised that, whatever his feelings on intimacy between men before, Jimmy Kent did not do things by halves. He was committed now to his feelings for a man, and all that entailed. He was a physical being, used to expressing himself that way.

So Jimmy sped things up, opening his mouth wider, gratified when Thomas mirrored him, meeting him tongue to tongue. He slid his other hand along his new lover's back, careful of the injured arm, wishing there wasn't all that fabric keeping him from feeling the hard strength beneath first-hand. He gasped as Thomas reciprocated, feeling fingers stroking his own back much more easily through his thin night-shirt, another wave of heat washing through him.

With the sound, Thomas, frustratingly, pulled away. "We can't do that here -- it'll have to wait until Declan and I have a new place."

Panting, Jimmy nodded, disappointment easing the pressure that had been building between his legs. As he rose, Thomas caught his hand and kissed it.

"Goodnight, my love," Thomas whispered, the adoring look he gave Jimmy then causing Jimmy's knees to go weak and his heart to flutter.

How times changed.

As Jimmy lie awake in his bed that night, he wondered if sleep was as elusive for Thomas -- or Declan, for that matter -- and cursed the world that kept them tortuously apart despite the desire being there on both sides now. There were only so many hours in a life, and it seemed such a waste to spend any of them yearning unnecessarily!

~ * * * ~  
Thomas would have thought that having Declan back would have facilitated a sound sleep, but he'd gotten used to having Declan sleep beside him; the lack of warmth and presence, coupled with how Jimmy had stirred him up, left him restless. He gave up and broke his fast with the servants, wishing them all a Happy Christmas, then headed up to Declan's room, for a morning kiss and a hurried story about the night before. Grinning, Declan gave him a congratulatory kiss before they headed down to breakfast with the Crawleys and the Wainrights, Thomas having coffee while they ate.

"Shall we order another car for you, for church?" Lord Grantham asked Clarette.

"Oh, no, I think Thomas, Declan, and Jenny could all use a lie-in, and I couldn't bear to be apart from them right now," Clarette hedged. "In fact, I should check on Jenny now. Please excuse me."

"Certainly," His Lordship said with an understanding smile. 

"We should pay Jenny a visit ourselves," Declan suggested to Thomas, rising; Thomas followed suit.

"Begging your pardon, Your Lordship, but I'm willing to stay behind to look after them," Jimmy quickly offered.

"As you wish," Lord Grantham nodded, seeming impressed with Jimmy's sacrifice.

Thomas wondered, amused, if it was really a sacrifice in Jimmy's eyes, or a sign of Clarette's influence. Then he worried Jimmy might see an opportunity. Once upon a time, Thomas would gladly have played while the cat was away, but found his feelings much changed after all His Lordship had done for him ....

Jimmy seemed to be of the same mindset, though. They stayed in the nursery all morning, Jimmy attentive and kind to Jenny, and just generally cheerful with everyone. It was such a scene of domestic bliss and tranquillity, Thomas half wished the morning could go on like this forever.

The rest of the day was pretty damn good too, though, especially when it came time for presents. Jimmy and the others, it seemed, had salvaged the packages Thomas had had in the closet of his and Declan's flat above the shop, and Tom had aired those items out in the barn where those and their other effects were stored. It seemed the doors to their flat and the closet were sealed well enough to, coupled with the boxes keep all but the faintest smokiness out, barely noticeable. So Jimmy fetched them, and with the help of Clarette, Jenny, and Lucas, they had everything prettily wrapped by the time of the servants' gift exchange. There were even extra, generic items for those Thomas didn't know, not wanting to leave anyone out. It felt good to be able to give -- and not for his own sake, not to receive thanks, but just to see people smile.

Bates seemed impressed enough with his gift, a new cane, but Thomas told him, "That's not all. Hold the stem and tug on the handle."

Quirking a brow, Bates did as Thomas asked, discovering a thin blade hidden in the wood.

Thomas had been thinking of the serial killer and Hardwood when he'd bought it; he wished he'd remembered the item was in hus closet during the attack on the clock shop. "It never hurts to be prepared."

"It does not," Bates agreed, slamming the blade home with a grim, satisfied smile, then shaking Thomas' hand.

To Anna, Mrs Hughes, Alfred, Daisy, Ivy, and Bradley, Thomas gave books -- a mystery story by newcomer Agatha Christie, a book on Scottish folklore, a cookbook on cuisine of the Far East, a comprehensive history book, a book of fashion, and a book of fine literature, respectively (with the last containing a note instructing Bradley to share it with his sister). To Mrs Patmore, he gave a wooden spoon that read, "Whosoever holdeth this spoon shall rule them all."

Later, when the family exchanged gifts amongst themselves, Thomas was treated to Sybbie's squeal of delight as she unwrapped the doll and immediately set to playing with Jenny, who had brought her own. Thomas thought it was one of the most wonderful sounds he'd ever heard -- and silently thanked Jimmy again for making sure he was still around to hear it.

To His Lordship, Thomas gave a snuffbox (the man would never know how it was an inside joke). To the ladies of the family, he gave scarves, the best going to Lady Violet (for having come up with the ascot idea; he wished Lady Edith were there to receive hers). The ladies, in turn, gifted him with a fine assortment of ascots. To Branson, he gave a model of a car -- a model the man would have to put together himself. To Thomas, Branson gave a very old clock in need of repair. (The Ladies Mary and Violet couldn't seem to understand how such broken old thing was perfect for Thomas, but Her Ladyship and Mrs Crawley, judging by their expressions, did.)

"I've one more surprise," Lord Grantham announced after the rest of the gifts were exchanged. "With the help of Mr Wainright and the agent he and Mr Baker share, we have arranged for Messrs Baker and Barrow to buy the clock shop in town, including the inventory."

Thomas exchanged shocked looks with Declan, who found his voice first -- and turned out to be shocked in a different way. "So soon! That's amazing!"

"Yes!" Thomas agreed. "Thank you so much, milord! I-I didn't realise Mr Davis was ready to retire! What astounding luck!" Thomas had tried to get a job with the man, once upon a time, but Davis hadn't been in need of help ….

"Alas, Mr Davis passed away recently," His Lordship revealed.

Declan, suddenly looking horrified, turned quickly to Clarette. "Wait a minute -- Clarette …?"

"It wasn't me," she assured quickly assured him.

 _What on earth was_ that _about?_ Thomas wondered, before deciding it was probably better not to know.

Declan didn't look certain he believed her as turned his attention back to His Lordship. "Still, this is maybe happening _too_ quickly!"

Thomas felt his stomach drop. Was Declan saying he wasn't sure he wanted to leave near Downton?

"I mean, it will be a while before we have the funds! I was expecting to sell our current real estate before buying another one!" 

Ahh, that was it. He would get money after the fire, but insurance didn't work that quickly!

"Mr Wainright and I will cover the up-front costs -- the village needs a clockworker, so it's an investment on my part," Lord Grantham explained.

"And our share is a Christmas gift from me, Clarette, and Jenny. Our agent will work out a mortgage for the rest. If you _want_ it, I mean," Lucas added.

Thomas grinned at Declan, who mirrored him. "Yes," they answered in tandem.

Thomas could see Jimmy, standing on duty, working hard not to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire series was sparked by the idea of Thomas being on the run and falling in love with a man who had a child and a clockshop, only to lose that man in a fire, be beaten (and have both arms broken, so he couldn't get another job for a while, and began to starve), and return to Downton suicidal with grief, with a final gift for Sybbie. That's right, alllllll those chapters before were a surprise to me -- so as you can imagine, after all that time, this fic has turned out quite differently than I'd originally planned. Declan wasn't originally a childhood friend, Jenny was originally Declan's daughter, I wasn't sure if I would have the story be a Thommy fic, and I've gone back and forth many times on whether or not Declan and/or Jenny would live, as well as whether or not Thomas would become Under Butler again (because I actually really love both ideas: Thomas having a clockshop and Thomas taking the place he earned as butler, having everyone's respect /proving himself). By the time I got to the point where I "killed" Declan, I couldn't bring myself to do it, even though I'd finally decided that yes, it would be a Thommy fic! LOL
> 
> Anyway, there will likely be an epilogue fic. :)
> 
> SPOILER FOR THE END OF SERIES SIX:  
> I swear I had envisioned Thomas slashing his wrist waaaay back during that initial inception back in 2013 -- I didn't get it from the show! In fact, my original envisioning of Jimmy's bedside vigil took place in the attic, just like Mary and George's visit! *cue _Twilight Zone_ music ....*

**Author's Note:**

> If you've enjoyed my writing, I invite you to explore my original fantasy storyverse, [Gaiankind](http://gaiankind.com)! You can even find Gaiankind stories for free [here](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Gaiankind) on AO3!


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